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Blackheilm

Ayenee

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a part of Blackheilm, by AtraLamia_Darkbane.

At last... the Northern campaigns were close an end. With the blessings of victory and conquest, the vast armies of warriors beginning their expedition back through the immense veils of shadowed glaciers.

AtraLamia_Darkbane holds sovereignty over Ayenee, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

268 readers have been here.

Setting

Many men had perished this inhospitable winter, to the harsh elements and relentless cold that cut through the strongest of prolific enchanted armours, and the thickest of wolf and bear fur alike. Blades, long tarnished in the bloods of their enemies still gleamed in the rays of a dying luminary… its phosphorescent radiance dimming, eerily void for a time, lucent like the orient sky patent with the insipid nuances of the dawn. Gradually the sphere became distended, ever-changing amid crepuscular vortical, swirling gloom as if pregnant with a type of primal darkness. Smouldering metamorphose swirled with a form of sentient life, contorting into a tenebrous and profound abysm, through which a teeming myriad of shadows burst through its inner sanctum rupturing the glacial firmament.

Eidolons of enthralling prophecies imageless before, rippled for a flicker of a instant in that phantasmic wave. All the darkest diversities opened only to self-consume. Revealing hidden occultisms and dimensions, only to ebb and dimmer irrevocably back into the shadow-shown eclipse of infinite blackness. It was as if the outer darkness and planar worlds fragmented, then recoiled backwards, solidifying, imparting an 'imprisoned' essence rapt within the disembodied other. Dimensional upsurge heralded by an opus of abysmal pandemonium in strident choir, causing several of the most resplendent stars to plummet into the gaping nothingness, howling into the nether-winds of the maelstrom. Ruptures in planar continuum initiated its own natural defences that severed temporal connections twixt several dimensions and astral portals that for millennia had been employed by various dimensional entities.


Ayenee had been in a chrysalis phase for the past five decades- in an attempt to mend itself through the innate sequence of nature, time and man’s reconciliation. Still she was not permitted the solace or respect of rejuvenation, raped and thus beaten to the arid, infertile womb that was supposed to cradle life, prosperously now barren. They felt it first to the Northen glades, tremors rumbling down the efface of the snow-capped alps, earth-shattering catastrophic quakes having already swept quarter of their numbers away by tsunami's of ice and rock. Winds so blistering cold, the needles of fanged-blizzard could easily flay a man of flesh to bone. Ignoring the advise and aeon-wisdom constantly bantered from the peppery bearded warrior, Vikor, sheltered under the waxen pelts of arctic bear. Beloved brother of Holter Krepstoiay… and during their return the silence began to eat away at better judgements; he could not forget the battle at Ciocladin's Pass. "Pardon. Mi’Lady? The men... they need rest.." Arriving at Atra's side much the same as a faithful hound would, turning in saddle to directly address the woman still concealed behind war-helm.

"They'll take respite, only when we get there." Delicate hands gripping tighter at the leathered reins of the Dreadstead, hidden by subtle magicks making it appear like any other Warhorse amongst ranks. Clenched knuckles tightening beneath leather from the grasp of tension furled around strapping edging quicker pace to leave the elderly man to his mothering. Breath harsh and pluming in wintry frosts, sylph-like in smoky-tufts rising from the cooling of maws. Both of fire and venom- oozing from the parapets of aberration... bordering on the thresholds of madness and the thrill of the bloodlust? Ruthless knifed-wings of ice and the breath of ice-demons; from the heaviness of its ire marching warrior and beast burrowed deeper beneath pelt and fleece. Tenacious hands griping reins, tethers of leather dangling through tightly clenched hands used to compel juggernaut to gallop when required. Phylactery of rotting cadaver, Cormath… headless and bloodless with hyacinth- sinister frozen veins streaking across stark skin- whispers had begun to pass through the lines, and even disturbed the impassive though it was an effigy of grandiose humour amongst the remaining Shadow Lords imbued with chaos and oblivion.

No one dared approach, nor inquired as to why this particular victim had been chosen, out of all the slain. A few speculated that it had been because of Plaguewrithe's downfall, but those assumptions faded into forgetfulness or when the heat of battle enraged adrenalin and claimed more souls and limbs as their exultant trophies. Shackled were the apostate, whether warrior, soothsayer or pledged warden or knight. The worst of those stigmatized with the 'craven symbol' suffered a number of excruciating tortures and prolonged deaths. Incarcerated alive within slime-daubed pitch-dark vestibule where they would evermore be entombed. Lynched from the haggard crags of stone-steeples by the neck, entrails dangling out of slit cavity in mimicry of wind-chimes. Impaled, the blunt of greased poles forcefully inserted up the rear passage, care taken that it followed along the spine, ensuring several days before death would claim them. Or, lastly the favoured, pitched to the voracious pyres burning like beacons athwart the lower tor's.

Nevertheless measures of demoralization , punishment and execution sated the more reasonable tribes and villages by fear, it was the higher alp-clans who showed stronger resistance. Having demonstrated previous resilience in former campaigns, if they could not comply with gentle persuasion or pledge fealty and duty to their beloved land then they would crumble beneath the weight of its inexorable might. Theurgic powers of their mystical and ancient Gods may have chosen to favour their kin, and bless them with gifts of deific gallantry. Those much like herself, bestowed and imbued with the omnipotence of apotheosis, be it celestial, shadow, void, darkness… this world would never be completely free of its nightmares or egregious ambitious villains. Albeit, foreign energies had waned tremendously when the immutable flux of augmented archaic bindings which had been implemented long ago by the Guardians, still possessed lawful dominion over the mainland of Ayenee, ensuring its balance was maintained. As it was, and forever would be.

This was however a savage place, no earthly laws abided- marked by the bane-fires of the Hellion Gates; branded by eldritch fire, sanctified by blood that ran slick over granite rock, and enforced by baneful runes antithetical in divine deflection. Powerful spells vibrated in dark oscillation, humming in low resonation, even the Battle-Warg's snarled in sepulchral admonition. Warning of something looming in the animated shadows of cromlech and eon-veiled silhouette. Strange formations they were, positioned at either side of the descended pass that trailed blindly into strewn woodlands. Moonlight gleaming through crooked boughs, wreathed in icy caresses of night entwining skeletal limbs in reverie of dryad lure to lead the foolish to their telluric damnation. War-song gradually withered into ill-omened hush… and blades were drawn at the disquiet of abrupt wind-drop no sooner had the last of the their legions left the sanctuary of forest, positioned in the middle of the highland hollows.

Visions and prescience withstood the brunt of its staging, portraying brooding and sombre apparitions, enthralling cries of pillage, rape and plunder escorted by slithering forces incensed with hatred, malevolence and abominable lusts. Incoherent sonance emitted from above, beyond the blackness of nocturnal shroud, grisly murmurs of nameless fiends, with their blackened jaws drooling blasphemy descended from the storm-wrought skies. Secreted by the livid basaltic labyrinths of Fiend-plagued calignosity. Shimmers of black in the massing dark, emerging from the outer darkness soaring on vast sable-wings blacker than darkling heavens. Ensnaring man and Warhorse by claws and dragging them up into the fathomless empyrean vault above. Shrieks dissolving amid Hesperus stars. August banners, snapping in the frenzied deviling minstrel, signalling the stride of invincible silver-clad legions fearlessly ready to embrace the blood-swathed arms of combat.

"By your command, my Imperatrix!" Zev'Thuk looking out from the vanguard with a grimace, studying the silent chill army of phantoms gathering up in ranks in the cloaking twilight. Appearance rigid whilst observing the accumulation, but hidden beneath the exterior heart-din shuddered. One minute the silhouettes solidified into ravaged bloodless flesh, the next splitting into slivers of white mist, fusing to congeal again into human shape and revealing the past injuries of their destined deaths. "Do not scowl, Grimend. It's unattractive in a man." Formal timbre responded, austere in husky sternness. Noticing from out of the corner of her eyes, the male gawking unabashed, even though Atra was concealed behind helm and the darkness within it, only inspired azureous eyes to focus harder. Envisioning in mind’s eye the beauty beyond lethal demeanour. "The enemy is that way, warrior." Gauntlet hand reaching across to grapple chin firmly, directing it back to frontal position. Scalpel-tapered blades biting into jawline as if threatening to tear mandible from its cradle, and would have had it not been for Vikor's well-timed intercession. Pitilessly etching mimic of features with crimson suppurated, till the satirical apexes glided away from Zev'Thuk's countenance… unenthusiastically.

When creature's whose essences are intrinsically depraved, opting to embrace this darksome energy source, the consequential evil symbiosis can be sublimely diabolical, as evidenced by the black scourge that was the iniquitous pseudo-human sorcerer Lord Aerian Cidrathmak. These fiends were from the darkling bottomless subterrene dominions, astir with malformed and horrible beings, sired by entities and spawn whose genesis was far beyond the all-consuming void of outer-worlds. Caring not even for the skin of their human lives. No human weapon could even sever these dread avatars from this plane of existence. A terrible acquaintance shadowed in Atra's icy-ebon eyes, unsheathing weapon so the metal edge grinding raucously against the lip. Bearing gauntlet-armoured fist a magnificent ebon blade, no human blacksmith ever forged. Fearsome demoniac supremacy crackled with a black flame over the luminous yard of black steel, dancing upon its blistering honed glyph-scored blade... and its bejewelled, wyvern-carved hilt. Majestically holding it high, "Into battle!" Once more powerful Warhorses and Warg leaped forth into the blackness of pestilences jaws. Shimmering swords raised in bravado, choral with the glorious percussions of steel on steel. Blood spilling to the floe, turning to fouled gelid rubies upon the deeply crystallized earth.... like protoplasmic slime.

The Darkbane/Blackheilm/Ayenee Cavalry tore gloriously into the foremost rank of the fiend-warriors, the squamous pseudo-flesh of the wraiths fully vulnerable to the empowered steel of the merciless legions. Atra'Lamia herself rode at the forefront of the onslaught, ensorcelled ebon blade hewing ten to the left and cleaving ten to the right, nefarious eyes gleaming beneath shimmering horned and plumed helm. The impetus of that first charge threw the dark skinless ones into shrieking chaos, collapsing back before the thundering sway of the Imperial attack. But the baleful, poisoned blades of the fiend took their toll upon those who were mortal amongst the ranks. Wrought by plague and vexed swords and spears, men and mounts falling screaming to the ashen soft earth, mercilessly rent and devoured by slavering nameless spawn. For every Imperial Dark-Knight felled by the dark ones, five fiends met their deaths beneath the slaughterfall of chaos steel. It howbeit was not enough. Like a slithering tide, the shadows engulfed the cavalry and legionnaire alike in asphyxiating grasp.

Volleys of shafts as their herald, embolden by the chanted sciomantic-arts of their matriarch; all forces marched into the ravening clinch of melee, and never in the sanguineous history of battle was there a clash to rival the enormity. Static resonation and vibrant effervescence of chaos blade against fiend blade, bloodcurdling howls permeating the ambiance that the sharp-tongues of squall travelled throughout the lower lands. At Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Calvary lost to the sickening fogs. Congeneric to a purifying furor, the allied forces clove into the demons to deal pattern-welded death unto their foe. Synchronously, hellborne terror descended screaming from the sky trapped in a sense of paroxysm. Wailing flocks of winged fiends, hurled forth from the malignant bosom of Cidrathmak, soared razor-taloned into the conflict. Besieged warrior-to-fiend upon the field, harried from above by the shrieking horrors of the Fiend-Liege, watching as his servitors began to falter.

Savouring the bloodbath, ascending high in right hand the ancient sword, and in left gauntlet brandished the 'Bane of Chaos', the dread Shadow-Sword once wielded by an Emperor, Cidrathmak had known and perished to in the past. Speaking aloud the terror-fraught and aeon-banishing lexis of incantation, where she alone had been audience to keep within the shadow-haunted labyrinths of the Shadowlands. At the salacious breathed words of power, skies ruptured wide in fury, scorching tendrils of ruinous fire lanced inexorably forth from the heavens, to cremate and reave the warring hordes. Both sides were dealt a staggering blow by the sorceresses incantations, the power of the spells inexplicably magnified by the immense incendiary volley that rained all hell upon them. Fiends utterly engulfed, those who managed to flee were routed soundly by the enraptured steel. Hurled across the fens fleeing, howling their anathemas and maledictions against the defending legions and Liege's, whilst winged horrors fell searing... burning from the enraged welkin.

Blades were crossed, their blade-songs blaring, and yet with a otherworldly grace indistinct from one point to another, carving a massive fissure across the field of bloodied snows and slime- aerated corrosive ichor's, staining black the earth. Unknown legions poured across the battlefield after volleys of draconic flame agitating the gyrating heavens of storm and frenzied fiend. Malady had long gripped the sinuous physique of the woman that skilfully fought with both blade and gauntlet- scale-mesh gleaming with claret and creeping voidic residues, perhaps it was the infliction urging the fires of battle… or fanatical addiction of all-life extinguished by her hands? Deathlike warriors in full pitch armour engulfed the throng of war, surging towards Atra'Lamia who donned both weapons in aggressive stance, only to have them pass to the clarion of a bestial roar, eviscerating those immediately within their path.

Leviathan had found claws to soil, rider dismounting, a giant of a man, clad in dark armour from head to toe. His full-face visored helmet was set with ornate metal fittings aureated in frosted-cryomancy; adorned in conflagrations of a spectral flame. "Feast!! Conquer in the name of Odinname!!" Deafening bellow of those words rolled across the wintry flats, it was not a phrase unfamiliar to Atra’Lamia but it was not bolstered by the one whom oft sung it during war, from long ago. Sword hilt balanced within the palm of gloved hand, digits splaying in stretch before furling securely, snaking around hilt ably. Chin ascending in haughty grandeur at the pronunciation of "You.. I came for you.." Mirroring his motions in astute attentiveness, Atra commenced to advance with deliberate and calculated footsteps; annihilating the distance between him and her. Gaze assiduously rapt upon his form- thirty feet swiftly fell to fifteen.

Scrutinizing this Lord’s deportment with an expression that veritably emanated intrepid poise, "Oh.. You’ve come for me then? In the name of Odinname!? How quaint, your bastard Earth-doomed God has no place here, heretic." Emphasis enforced to the 'quaint' and 'heretic', not the question posed, libidinously detached rhythmus flowed adrift the accent strong, idiosyncratic and unmistakable. Features hidden behind the mithril visor of some grinning monstrosity, gore-draped stature flecked with viscera and fragments of flayed flesh consecrated by blood. Starless sloe-eyes burning ominously within the dark depths of demoniac helm with a newfound purpose.


O·sᴏғᴛ ᴇᴍʙᴀʟᴍᴇʀ ᴏғ ɴɪɢʜᴛ﹣ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴠɪʀᴛᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ sϙᴜᴀɴᴅᴇʀ﹐ ʙᴇϙᴜᴇᴀᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ғɪᴇʀʏ ᴠᴇʀsᴇ... ғʀᴏᴍ ᴏɴᴇ Wᴀʀʟᴏʀᴅ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.​
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Ayenee

At last... the Northern campaigns were close an end. With the blessings of victory and conquest, the vast armies of warriors beginning their expedition back through the immense veils of shadowed glaciers.

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Character Portrait: TheEnder
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It had only been a few days since the Dreadknight's arrival in the lands of Ayenee, his Legion had grown to vast numbers, as if the gates of hell themselves had broken, spilling forth the millions of tortured souls and beings whom had lost the chance of salvation. A tangible evil tainted the land upon which he'd deemed his own, which he'd given the name of "Dreadkeep Valley". He resided in the watchtower, standing over a pensive, glaring down into the thick silver liquid which rippled with movements. He watched as a female pushed back beings which were more fiend than man, he sensed something about her, something.. interesting.

The Seven Wraith Riders which guarded their DreadLord at all times resided in the darker corners of the watchtower, standing in sworn silence. Creature's almost disembodied voice thundered as he spoke, his right hand shooting upwards with fist clenched, as if he'd found his target, but his intentions were more than that. "Ready the Forsaken!! We Ride to the North!" The seven Wraith's hissed in crying unison, and moved off down the spiral staircase in quick cadence with one another. Creature returned the gaze of his cold, yellow eyes back to the female, a growl emitted from his throat, low and benevolent. "I knew you.." Were his only words before he sloshed the liquid in the pensive and turned to follow his Wraith's down the staircase.

Outside the Courtyard, The Legion had been gathered, and a sacrifice had been placed upon knees before the Dead Tree. Creature entered the courtyard down the steps of the Dreadfort, his voice thundering out along the vast numbers of the Forsaken, which ran as far as the eye could see. "Ready your blades men, for tomorrow we conquer! Tonight, we dine in cold hell!!" The Legion roared, a thunder amongst the battered, scorched lands of the Dreadfort, just before Creature picked the sacrifice up by the neck. It was a man, old in age, weak, feeble.

"Please My Lord! Spare me!! My sons are well and young enough to serve you.. please, my family needs me!!" Creature tightened his grip upon the man's neck, cutting off his wind. "Silence heretic! I do not recruit the living.." He began the entirety of his most favorite Spell, "Soul Steal." The old man's face went pale as the deep purple aura veiled Creature, pulling the very soul out of the human, as if sticking a vaccum down one's throat, the blue hazed life force slipped from the man's lips, and Creature dropped him to the ground. He was already dead, but the ting of steel unsheathed and the ignition of flames filled the air, followed by the stench of scorched flesh and a glorious uproar of the Forsaken. He began the motions of his second favorite ability, "Shadow Walk" In which he activated with the soul, to transport himself, and his Legion into the Northern lands unknown. A blackish purple blanket covered the vast valley, and the light flashed. Moments later the blanket lifted, and the entirety of the Legion stood in a vast, snow encumbered plane.

Cold breath like smoke tainted the air before mouths like the smoke from the end of a cigar, thick. "Rise.." Creature's voice whispered, and the Warhorse which had taken him to his stead formed just before him, and his Wraith's did the same. They mounted their Horses in unison, and began the long journey towards the goal. The Legions footsteps thundered in unison behind the eight riders, which now all eight looked the same. The only difference between creature and the rest, were the horns of his Helment sticking up under his hood. Onward they trod, through the massive dunes of snow and the vast plains of cold, snow fell downward in sideways blankets, making the path seen less easy to find. A few hours had passed before night had began to fall, and the massive company came to a halt. "Rest cold! For tomorrow we ride!!" Creature dismounted and released his steed, before he and the seven Wraith's set up camp, a massive black tent, with mammoth pelts for the flooring.

Creature resided in a portable throne, made from ivory of mammoth tusks for the basic build, accompanied by a lush abundance of bones for the base. Cushions adorned with silk of black made up the seat and back rest. The throne rested before a long oak table, which was piled with maps Creature had found in the ancient Library. Aparrently this world had been given the name of Ayenee, he had positioned the Forsaken just five miles south of the woman he'd sought out. "We are here.. tomorrow, we arrive here." One of the Wraith's stepped forward, a whispering, almost agonizingly shrill voice passed through the darkness behind the hood. "My Lord, why is it you seek out this female?.. what is her importance to us?"

Creature sat back in his throne, his helment rested upon the side of the table, leaving his strong face to shine in the dim lighting. The scar which adorned the left side of his face glimmered in the lighting as he spoke. "I can smell my brother's essence on her.. I sense her power.. I've known her once before, though I cannot recall how we'd met.." At the mention of Balthazar's presence, the Wraith's gasped, the history between the brothers was quite chaotic, and Balthazar had been lost for a very long time. "She would make a good asset.. should she be wise and not ride into battle against us. Should she do so we will crush them all.." Creature's words stung the air like the harsh venom of a Cobra would sear through the veins of a victim.

The night was cold, quiet all but save the howling of the blizzard which blanketed the numerous thousands of tents in white. The dream plagued him like it had only happened yesterday. The last war, the Dawn of the Ageless.. Creature saw himself standing atop a hill, locked in battle against his brother.. oh how they fought, steel kissed steel, blood kissed earth.. power kissed the air. They had gotten separated, Creature watched himself tear through the forces of the Dawnguard with his blade, leaving bodies to litter the earth like decorations.. Oh the glorious bloodshed..

He watched as he locked in combat with a female warrior, steel kissing flesh, then steel.. it was his daughter, Aria.. The final moments.. "Your days are done, heretic.." He heard himself say as he balanced the blade against the side of Aria's throat, which she extended with pride.. "To die for the cause to end the monster you've become.. I will walk the halls of Valhalla with pride.." Aria's words hit him like a wall to the face, just before he relived the moment of watching her head roll down the bloodstained hill.. Creature awoke in a cold sweat, a growl deep within his chest thundered forth in a roar, echoing through the bland space of snow..

Morning came, sunrise, and all of the Legion was awake, breaking down tents and putting them in small packs. Creature stood between his Wraith's, all of whom chanted incantations untangible by ears. Through the veil of snow one would witness the birth of the Nidhogg, a Dragon of dark proportions, fifteen feet in height from ground to back, thirty feet in length from snout to tail. Tangible shrouds of smoke depicted the form of the Dragon from it's nostrils, black smoke, thick and rich with brimstone. The Wraith's summoned their own mounts, their Warhorses, each of same proportions, black pelts, runic brands glowing dark crimson, decaying skin and flaming white hooves, with billowing smoking mane, and dark crimson eyes aglow.

Creature stood atop the back of the Dragon, who gave a magnificent roar, to signal the beginning of the end. "Onward!! Taste the glory at hand!! For today, we conquer the Unknown!!" The Legion raised their voices in a glorious thunder of unison chanting "Conquer!! Conquer!! Conquer!!" Creature took the chained reins in hand of the Dragon's Maw, and massive black wings beat the air. The thunderous Legion marched forth as Creature disappeared into the snow encumbered skies.

It wasn't long before Creature came upon the battleground ahead. There she was, driving the fiendish warriors back, with her own numbers at her side. The Dragon began it's descent, letting loose a glorious roar of war. Upon it's swoop of destiny, blackened flames kissed the snow between the two forces, leaving riders upon horses on both sides to be thrown, and the steeds to turn and run. The thundering unison of the Legion's cadence grew closer as the sun rose higher into the skies, and finally they topped the hill.

Numerous battle cries roared as they poured off of the hillside like a sea rolling into waves. The ground thundered beneath them, they headed not for the side of the female, but those of the fiendish ones. A great roar battered the skies as Creature dropped from his mount, directly into the epicenter of the battle, the small gap between sides. Blade drawn, ablaze in magnificent cold glory of blue flame. His black armor shined behind the flame, his helm cast the imposing glare of death in the corporeal form, his aura would be suffocating, littered with tangible evil, and a darkness so surreal it prickled the skin with goosepimples. "Feast!! Conquer in the name of Odinname!!" His near disembodied, war laden voice thundered as his forces clashed with the fiendish ones. His gaze alone fell upon her, the one. His blade raised as if in signaling.. "You.. I came for you.."

The Wraith's had clashed first, deathly shrill cheers of glorious death arose, as if in delightful chorus of the voices from the depth's of Hell itself, his Legion took to their calling, clashing with those whom opposed the one whom he had sought out. The Wraith's acted in his stead as he confronted the Imperatrix, combining five dead of any side, to complete one whole, furthermore extending the numbers of the Forsaken. In his lands, it had been said that the Forsaken were, unkillable, but that would be proven wholly proposterous. Creature stood in full glory, the epitome of Death itself, sephucrial flames dancing from the black plate which was his armor. The orbs which rested aglow in deep yellow tinge burned with a deep desire, a wanting so inferior it fueled his burning desire to conquer, to begin his second coming.

"Abaddon..." His darkness engrossed voice called out, a name so long ago forgotten, he hadn't

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Tʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs sᴘɪʀɪᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴜʀsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅɪʀᴛ ᴏʀ ᴅᴜsᴛ; ɪᴛ ɪs ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴡᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ﹗ Bᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍs ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ﹐ ғᴏʀ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴀ ʟᴀᴡ﹐ ɴᴏᴛ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜᴍᴇɴᴛ﹐ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ... ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ.


Miscreants, the very word echoed through Atra'Lamia's heart-strings as eyes of ebony watched a legion clash with other. She determined it as scuttling around like vermin and cattle. Oblivious to their bloody destiny; and hoped they would welcome death well...and if not they would learn their place by her blades, at the hands of domination and tyranny. Perhaps these warrior gazed upon her shadowy form, so fluid and eloquently poignant in mellifluous motion while cutting through the lines like brutal winds to ash. Unearthly in beauty while nightmarish in realization, that while the war-worthy gazed transfixed upon such magnificence; none would stake their affirmation of such desires before the Shadow Lords of Ayenee, or the Obsidian Lords of Rhydin, let alone her.

The helmet of a stranger turned in the direction of Atra'Lamia making way through the mass of gleaming crimson splashed against the lustre of silver, blade in adept glove. Gauntlet right hand ascended the Sword of Ayen, 'Intorqueo Flamma'. Calculating the position in which the man moved in conjunction with that of her own. A man no less, who appeared to believe himself to be a commander of some chapter, of some unworthy status of authority. Offering a shrug in response before being receiving with such command the swing of sword striking against thigh only to have it break upon mesh and sable leathers. In a blink of an eye, burying her blade in his gut. Its impressive length erupting out the other side, impaling the man as if he were nothing but air. A soundless vibration slipped from betwixt lips as gasping esophagus gurgled helplessly, blood pouring from his mouth. Barely acknowledging in appreciation for as a savage, delivered twist of sword sent waves of pain washing over the soldiers consciousness- making an expression of exquisite pain break upon the canvas of horrified face.

The two remaining closest faced the quandary of whether to fight or run gave nothing short of a look of terror before another of revulsion swept across features beneath their helms. Not only struggling against the trepidation that welled up inside of them but also an intense feeling of biliousness. Deciding to not dirty hands on mere fodder, and the boisterous one just beyond them, Atra's apertures parted for but a moment unleashing a stream of Stygian shadow-like fire that engulfed them, completely incinerating them to ash, such was the intensity of the inferno.

Barely granting them a second of ardent interest other than the one previously used as a shield, gauntlet digits perforating hungrily into the softest chasms of flesh, through to the chest cavity with a forceful directed greeting through the lower intestine with cold steel. With an ample flick of the wrist in another violent incision made to lavishly scorch cold flesh producing crimson streams. Ribs sliced to the loins, revealing the exposed cavity towards the heavens, then, rendering the inner costal cartilage and manubriums sluiced for the extraction of prized heart. Lifting the pulsating effigy into the air, like some grotesque offering to a god of destruction before consuming it. Dripping claret fell in suspended animation in Goetic tribute over Mithril, mesh then alabaster flesh, "A man must accept his fate, or be destroyed by it... from shore to crumbling shore."

The asphyxiation of the sun from the conjurations of darkness brought with it the final sight of the mighty Capital of Ayenee, though it did not impede vision in the slightest. In truth the presence of her engraved oblivion in the souls of fallen men was more at home in the velvety folds of shadows, for although any light struggled to illuminate its ghostly luminosity seemed to simply part around the Imperatrix, the gloaming illuminating silhouette birthed a greater shadow amid the tenebrous, miasmic whorl of battle, necromancy and death prestidigitation.

Painted vermillion splattered features with tribal markings of war beheld the carnage widespread over fields, then casting downwards at the macabre display of what had been a man, now nothing but a crude vision, with last of its warmth hissing on the frigid winds. A beleaguered butchery, viscera tapering across the earth in arcane patterns like Haruspicy. Pitilessly a smirk slid across rubicund apertures, a conquering libation though he was hardly worth the celebration of glory. The teeming horde of soldiers that so many challengers usually fought to pass through, seemed to strangely part before the sanguine painted female, and not surprisingly so for she donned the dreadful representation of Darkbane in all its legendary glory. Impenetrable starless eyes, devoid of the faintest hint of pupils, fixated on him and his 'unveiling' glory. Nestled tightly in right hand, was the legendary sword of Ayenee ready to parry any schlemiel foolish enough to come forth and test its metal.

"I care not of whom you were, or whom you are!" Her voice was like that of ambrosia and darkness, yet it possessed a timbre of mockery hidden beneath its velvet. Flicking downwards then the apex of weapon, resting upon its elaborate hilt, while gore-gauntlet gestured forth with a manicured arch of brow, "You have come for me, then.. well come then! Test your blade and wraiths against me if you dare!" An evil grin would be prompted by chosen discourse...dark-liquored eyes glistening in heinous effluence, narrowing into daggered slithers as Atra's head ascended to greet the Dreadknight. A growl issued from twixt rubicund apertures, death-ravening in frost-tendril plumes in wraith-like exhalation; entwined in unexplained vehemence and passion. Ruby lips plaguing a barbarous symmetrical indifference, as eyes akin to curses in gleam of winter moonlight over black water, glanced over the Dark Messiah's form deliberately... bootfall brought the wither of ever-consuming shadows.

"Shall I notch another widow to my haft?" , chin ascending defiantly, features shifting behind the midnight veils of billowing tresses exposing ensanguined visage, though not meeting eye to eye, more of an oblique apathy to incite affront. Aesthetically primed when Atra stood before him, blade sung through the air to strike only to miss. Placing agility to sinuous hip in the recoil when apex of weapon had missed its target but nor was her blade knocked from grasp. Atra didn't pivot to face Abaddon directly, and cast the side of demurred cheek to rest against left shoulder. Fingernails resembling furian claws sharply tapped against the hilt of the sword, fist staining to the whiteness of bone beneath translucent flesh clenching it firmer in grasp, gleaming in a cold affection. Momentum force flicking the sword upwards, adroitly rising it just past the adjacent shoulder then swinging it around at an 'orderly' and 'close' 180 degree arch. Bringing the right flank of blade around with a flamboyant rotation at the wrist, in unison, lithe body nimbly following from hip and torso.

Responsive and flexible, balletic in elegant twist into a refined, poised step. Saving the theatrics of some moronic spin for the thespian. Never leaving back exposed. Maintaining a strong defense and him 'on point' potency to dismember reason, quicker than a wasp could sting. Thoughtful reflection danced conservatively over his striking features with deadly starless daggers. Words designed to stir drifted on a seraphic-consonant melody, "A blade should never be swung, and it not bless its purpose in the red wines' of battle. Why cease the dance just because the music has changed?" Murderous orchids contorting into a cynical leer chasing the last lingering, rolling pronunciation intended to reach out... caress the provocation of the fight.. instead it was thrown against the howling winds that shrieked already of hex and baneful tidings from the Order of Wraiths encircling.

Strange melodies existed in the wind; reality itself collapsed within a thin veil of black breath; oblivion itself gaping like a ruptured orifice in its ravenous vitriol. Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal flawless monochromatic beauty, except those lustrous asphodel lanterns glaring out from behind cascading aphotic mantles of darkness. "... try not to be bumptious; I grant a lesser credence to the intrigue, let alone than that of nostalgia." A sound of bile hissed nefariously on venomous lung... dissatisfaction when movement came forth, 'on point' of blade not abating aim signifying intent to pluck the Adam's Apple from its hearth. In a disembodied, other-worldly soft emphasis she spoke, "Audience....denied." Shadows trembling where they extended out from their coffers of flesh and bone. Their stillness more terrible than the Wraiths, whose chants rendered the fields in crimson and tempest {unleashing their theurgies with a great proficiency}.

Towers of flesh toppled, drowning in a staggering sea of crimson mixed with the tears of the Gods, the crown of the heavens bent low in genuflect of weeping all around them. The firmament opened above them. Beads of rain luminous, black jewels darker than the blackest of Acheron's rivers. Rolling thunder shaking the world's axis in ear-splitting crescendos, reverberating down hump-backed Alps, across valley and vale. Erzulie-painted was Atra's features in the pallid light between sporadic flashes of lightening; saturated hair clinging tight against bodice and over one clad shoulder, trailing down, over tourniquet of pelt and chain. Digits tightening around hilt- she would relish this encounter further.

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Character Portrait: Atra'Lamia Darkbane
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Fʀᴏᴍ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ﹐ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs· ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀs﹐ ᴛɪᴍᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪs ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜᴏʀs.



Dark spells weaved throughout the building energies. The vaults of eon-veiled horrors spawned forth the shadow-gates swelling, yawning wide, parting the vestments of dusk shackled to the parturition of hermetic darkness. Malodor billowing forth as if it were the baleful breath of 'Oblivion' himself-- pungent odours of engorged flesh, atrophy and decay that had been sealed from this world for several lifetimes. Indecipherable long-dead tongues spoke in delirious skeletal choirs, grisly murmurs of nameless fiends with black jaws drooling blasphemy and howling in flesh-lust through the entwining frosts 'living' gloom granting litany to their presence.

With such gathering forces rose the names of those who had adorned the battlefield; some names of legends that even the bards themselves had sung of in the terrors of the darkest nights. No man nor beast would be held steadfast by the command, and instead what flag had been held waving in the carnivorous winds in flutter of white that even the shadows cast bruised hues over the stark of its refute. Regardless of the reputation of he who held it, the Shadow Warlord of Blackheilm himself, no surrender nor truce would be seen this day.

Thus... through the dark tide her laughter echoed, crackling in the whispering mane of the basaltic winds shattering blessed cromlech and custodial wards. Amidst these, the nine stones that had been placed at the quarters of the realm by Nesentra (one of the oldest of Ayenee's Guardians), to charge the lands with their protective thaumaturgy, long before even the cities or kingdoms had risen from the infant soil. Cimmerian shades, danced and waltzed astride the mystic torans before crushing them to powder and dust, as if they were nothing but the ruinous totems of a lore that no longer held prestige or effect.

Old magick's waned and with them the defences that had stood the test of time and the most powerful influences of sorcery and fulcrums. Infused by the potent conjurations of apt diablerie; cosmic infinity nor affinity was nothing compared to one such as herself, on a whim alone she could reshape the surface of worlds. And had without lifting so much as a finger of indictment or retribution. The long dead, were certainly in no place to judge when besieged with the legions that had stood the test of time, and ensorcelled blade. Not even a memory to those who had forgotten the ballads of the fallen guardians.

Invocations unleashed the veils of Blackheilm that in turn devoured, darkness constricting its dominance like a buffer. To counteract the Wraith's sanguine raptures which would either disengaged, or consume the 'binding/magickal' anchors that constituted no sway over the shadows, compelling ancient paths of natural leylines to rupture-- spilling forth deeper and more archaic primal doorways from their oily locks to unfetter a new havoc where order sought to establish itself when chaos had yet to sample its sour meat let alone its weak and weathered steel.

It was then at the precise moment, that the colliding and clashing elements were within a war of their own, the feminine seduction of Atra'lamia's lilt rose above all, encompassed all, and obliterated all in its cacophonous, insidious resonance, "Prevail with me... beyond the shadows... rule with me... a thousand worlds...!" Black flames erupted on the talons of raven-storm, saturating once proud citadels of the great antediluvian empires and the temples where once they had been worshipped. Even the spells and conjurations of necromancy waned at her dominance.

Scorching, rendering, smouldering those caught within the holocaust leaving nothing but emaciated cindered-crests; throwing every ensnared ion straight into the malignant bosom of oblivion itself. "Fall only when your hearts cease beating, and your flames extinguished. Devils and Outlaws of Western Ayenee... my proud warriors of Blackheilm." 'My' beheld a great emphasis and formidable significance, the war-cry itself held a weight and poignancy only another Darkbane possibly admired let alone recognized, but so would those of distant familiarity.

A dark honour of their own, that did not require audible declarations of supremacy. Harried from above as the shrouds fully tegumented and closed within it what energies and magick's had previously been coerced, and would not be snuffed like a candle flame in the soft libidinous night, no matter how hard the pinch sought to captured its incalescence. At Atra's command, the clarion was sounded to move the battle-hardened veterans of the Western Ayenee Army forward into a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Darkbane/Blackheilm Imperial Cavalry and Ayenee's unyielding foot-soldiers. Then, like a purifying storm the allied Imperial forces clove into the swarm to deal pattern-welded death unto their virtuous foe.

Naught registered of call or sultry uttered names through the ethereal tapestries, it would not be a means of pact or amicable reverie. A black rune was cast and pushed towards their aura's, and only it would portend the probability of their fates by the actions and deeds done. Written in the blood their blades would spill, or would they demonstrate spinelessness and submission, to an deity bejewelled in spurn and scorn from the endeavours of their own indiscretion? Ebonized fires leapt, engulfing the fields in cataclysmic phoenix-born barbs erupting across the skies from the catapults that snapped back in release. Warriors and mounts seared and burned from the enraged sky which fell like the rapture heralding the end of times. Twisted machinations of chaos had not even unleashed the last of the dread confrontation that rumbled throughout the melee-- a tactical scheme utilizing the potential energies to the fullest extent of the darkest of arts alongside their vile emissions.

Augmented plague storms scathed the terrain and the Undead regiments, not even some of her own were spared the gluttonous appetite of necrotic pestilence. Mithril turned to rust, and bone to dust. Putrescine and cadaverine drifted pungently thick sickly-verdant nebulous mass, combining with the darkness and shadows previously resurrected. Unless controlled instantaneously like the string of a puppet-master they bore no real sentience or relevance, until the battle-mages and weavers gathered them up into a surging wave of psionic egregore. Ever-widening, comparable to a Kraken's embrace.

"None exists. The tide has flowed, it ebbs forever, for all die." Disembodied susurration rippled in static, primordial, inhaled sharply with metallic fatigue. Imitation to mimic human intonations sunk beneath the abysmal tides of demonic salience. From behind the glorious clash of Black Mithril Blackheilm sword against whatever tempered their ire, be it foe, or those caught twixt the tempest. Who fell, who faltered and who died never bothered one who held the Darkbane name with the darkest of superiority and honour... all that mattered was the blood smeared and what death lay behind from the harvest. Still the battle-mages continued their chants except one stepped forth taking prestige; bedraped in a stygian cloak and fuliginous cowl, exuding an aura of implacable malevolence, which unnerved even the bravest of the Ayenee Imperial troops.

Agitated statuesque facade flinched to the accent and expression of foreign intruder, bearing desires and wants not impervious to Atra's agenda. This was a battlefield, one that stunk from the eons of death and wane, carnage ebbed and flowed around them all in both vision and ambiance. Not some cavalier stroll in a garden of fragrant flowers, nor was he a refined gentleman seeking the silken hand of some painted courtesan. And had her blade not chosen its quarry, it surely would have sought the innermost sanctum of the soulless coffer noted as "HIS" flesh and embodiment.

Dismissing Abaddon with a nonchalant gesture of hand, "Get off my battlefield!" Before further dialogue could slip between sanguine apertures save for a growl of dissatisfaction, attention returned to the war-tide. Not looking back over shoulder as the Dreadknight returned to his origins alongside his men. Darkness descended like the behemoth obsidian wave of dark energies and maelstrom of chaotic residues that washed across the fields like the eldritch Dead Sea of Grimsdalr. "Never quarter, never mercy, never retreat!" The final chorus to the duet... the martial preparations commenced in earnest. A brief and perfunctory exchange between generals and commanders, as the Imperial banner of Western Ayenee was duly driven into the seared earth with a chilling finality. And again the vast siege engines and powerful ballistae were hauled inexorably but into a different position, as to the front alongside, appeared a succession of katapelte and petrobolos. Dreaded Battle-Warg (Fen-Dwellers) and War- Leopards, straining noisily against their iron-link restraints to the rear of the myrmidon, conscripts and auxiliaries in escort.

Battle Magicks|Enchantments.

Veils of Blackhelm: Shroud of Darkness. Cancels Shadow/Wraith magicks and casts a complete dome of darkness over a specific area. [LvL 1] [active conjuration]
Shadow Shield: Conceals within the shrouds. Offers resistance to Holy, Darkness|Death, Frost or Fire spells. Passive. Soaks damage. [LvL 1] [active conjuration]
Shadow Blight: Smite of Chaos. Drains sentient|living magicks and sentient infused armours rendering them vulnerable to steel. [LvL 1] [activated spell]
RavenStorm: Plague Wind. Death spell. Breath Augment. May also be considered a hex spell. Multi-wound, infesting 'living' armour/weapon/flesh with rapid viral decay. Typically augmented by eupnea or exsufflation spells, combined with the Veils of Blackhelm or other contagion/cloaking magicks. [LvL 1] [activated spell]