The Guardians of London: Fourth Echelon (Chapter Two)
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I'm not an Illirian Knight, so what am I supposed to do? Oh by the way I found a theme for my guy. Two Steps From Hell Freefall.
if you aren't an ilirian then you can come in with my character if LA is alright with it. She will be joining them soon anyways
Anastasia Romanov sat almost motionless in her chair. A black raven sat on her windowsill. Its message just delivered, the bird took the liberty of examining its surroundings. The room seemed empty, though not for recent events. It had been a long time since the room was truly full. Anastasia only seemed to sleep there, everything else was irrelevant and the room remained almost untouched otherwise.
She took a deep breath in and opened her eyes. This was finally happening. Surreal yet frightening, the moment overwhelmed her a bit and a tear rolled down her face. She shook a little. She was tired of this, for years she had been without him. This was over her head, and it broke her courage.
It took several more hours of lying almost motionless on the couch, curled up into a ball, starring off into nothing until she could even muster the strength to stand. One step at a time, she packed a bag, one step at a time she walked out the door to the car waiting, and for one moment at a time, she breathed in and out as the car sped to its destination.
She didnt know when it actually happened, but at some point in the ride she found her heart again. She checked her makeup in a mirror as the castle approached and straightened any folds in the sleek red dress she wore. Taking only a small handbag, she stepped from the car. Her composure, her look, her walk, it all seemed that of a woman in control, however she was having a hard time holding down the true emotions inside her. Ladylike in her movement, she walked through the doors and into the great hall of the castle, her heels echoing with a pace so constant that one could keep musical time with them.
Thousands of miles away (though it felt like a million) a man lay inside a cold damp cell, curled up in the corner, sackcloth for clothes and a completely unkempt face of dirty scraggy hair covered an almost sickly body, much of the muscles of his youth lost of atrophy. Feet and hands calloused, he shook in the cold dark that was his imprisonment. However, it was not the cell that truly held him, for were he the man he was ten years ago, he would have broken out. But here lay a different man, hands shaking in weakness, he took a small rock and ran it hard against a wall. The shearing effect leaving white lines in the wall. The lines creating letters, the letter creating words, the words creating a sentence, the sentence the only thing he had left. The small glimmer of himself he was left with. He was determined to hold onto this one thing, even if he had long forgotten why he held onto it. It meant something to him, something he could not let himself forget completely. He must hold onto it, hold onto it for dear life, cling to this one thing even if all else is destroyed, this must remain:
"I am Nicholaus Kin, I AM RHYLE"
It just turned midnight where I am, if I'm not back in time for openings, I'd assume I arrive with Hadrien.
Good Night.
EDIT: Eight hours later I'm back
Good Night.
EDIT: Eight hours later I'm back
Everyone besides Rena, Kin and Anastasia is an Illrian Knight now. Pick an Illrian and they are yours. You can pick the Illrian's gender. Yes everyone is an Illrian Knight. All characters awakened, their family heritage manifesting and transforming them into the appearance of an Illrian Knight. Whatever allegiance you have you will keep but you are bonded now and now it's time to begin your training.
'This was a beautiful moment in irony', Sinclair thought bitterly. 'Truly it was. He probably shouldn't have involved himself in South America. Should have just left when the Illrians were storming the Thaumaturgists there, he learnt what he needed to from them after all. But nooooo. He had to be a bloody hero. Save the Astaroth Coven Alex! It's the right thing to do! Fucking useless.'
He stumbled as his foot stepped across a jagged rock, and the Guardian behind him shoved him forward, causing the chains across his ankles and wrists to almost stumble him. He grimaced at the man's roughness, but didn't let it show on his face. He took stock of his current disabilities and attributes, and came to a very grim conclusion. He was currently starved, dehydrated, weak and had a considerable migraine. They had moved him to one of the newer Guardian buildings, which was to be expected, as he wasn't familiar with the building's infrastructure as he was with the others. This, along with aggressive guards and an unsympathetic court would likely mean he'd be executed within the day with the current tools he had.
They eventually came to a majestic marble door, engraved with the history of the Guardians in splendid accuracy. They opened it in roughly, dragging Sinclair through it and, after a few seconds, throwing him onto the floor. It felt cool to his touch, and his experience with Guardian castles, like this most definitely was, meant that it was probably marble as well. Lovely.
He looked up to see a collection of Five Thrones shadowed in darkness, on which were seated four High Masters, with the left most chair being empty and left in the light. He wasn't aware of the current number of High Masters, something the Guardians guarded jealously, but he could tell that four High Masters coming to meet him was a significant occurrence. Something like this hasn't happened in a very long time after all.
A deep, unnaturally stern voice rumbled through his head, and in his weakened state he couldn't tell whether or not it was from an actual voice or from Imperiomancy.
"Alexander Sinclair. Dishonored Guardian of London. The Thaumaturgist known as the Black Nail" the voice spoke, speaking of the Thaumaturgist portion with obvious disgust. "You have been charged with the murders of Master Richard Howards, Master Erlandur, the deaths of dozens of Guardians on duty over the years, the destruction of numerous Guardian facilities as well as the sacrilegious murder of High Master Pharisee's successor and current seater of the Throne of Five Avran D' Arthos. What say you to these charges?"
Sinclair was weak and tired, but he could tell that he was not alone with these blasted old men. He dragged himself to his knees, his head lolling about as he watched his surroundings. There were two guardians behind him, and numerous other guardians lining the walls of this room. There were windows, several dozen meters above ground level which could serve as a possible escape route as well, not that he'd get far. He doubted the Guardians would let such an escape route alone, and there were probably even more guardians there.
"I repeat myself Alexander Sinclair." The Voice responded again. "What say you?"
Sinclair removed himself from observing his surroundings and began to speak to the High Master, "I'm sorry old man, was I to assume this is anything but a mere formality before you behead me and mount my head on your fireplace?" his parched and broken throat nonetheless giving out the full power of his sarcasm and disdain.
The voice grunted in anger, and was replaced with a soothing, yet firm, feminine tone.
"Alexander Sinclair, we are the Guardians of London. It's protectors and judges. We have decided upon nothing as of the moment."
The Black Nail raised an amused eyebrow at that and laughed.
"Be you more the fool then High Master, be you more the fool then." Sinclair laughed out with pleasure. "I did do what you said I did. I watched as Master Howards died to my bullets at close range. I ripped apart Master Erlandur's mind as he laid in the hospital after I burnt his facility down and killed everyone he could conceive of as a friend. And yes, I killed Avran D' Arthos as well. Foolish little man, not very careful at all. He didn't take care of his hair samples after his monthly forays into barber shop now did he? Then again, I expected him to put up more of a fight, being a High Master and all, so I suppose that me sticking around to fire a .50 caliber round into his skull was a foolish move on my pa-"
He staggered to the ground as the guardian behind him sliced his sword across his back, bringing a fiery sensation of pain that seemed curiously dull as he fell. He stayed on the floor, not interested in participating in this farce when a...voice, came to him.
Hmm. Interesting.
"Be quiet Sinclair!" The voice returned again, seemingly muted compared to the almost polite and gentlemanly sound whispering into his ear "You will tell us the names of your compatriots and the one who hired you, and you will be given a swift death compared to what some had planned for you!"
You should listen to him. After all, the last time I checked, you mortals hated pain and all that correct?
Sinclair grunted but did not answer. The whispering voice seemed almost cheerful in it's response.
Ooh. I like that. Proud until the end yes? If I was one of Lucifer's, I'd be very taken in by you.
"Sinclair!" the High Master shouted, the room almost vibrating in his rage and Sinclair's vision blanking out for a few seconds. He noted curiously that none of the other guardians were disturbed. Of course, it was probably that they were merely used to the apoplectic rage the High Master was throwing at the moment, but at the rate he was going it probably meant that he was an Imperiomancer trying to distract him with his rage. He didn't recall any Natural Magic that could release such a reaction through sheer rage alone. Interesting. "You WILL tell us who sent you!"
The Black Nail snorted and ignored him. "So which Hierarchy are you then hmm?"
Excuse me?
'Traditionally, your kind are divided into three Hierarchies.' Sinclair thought. The first Hierarchy being fallen angels that were Seraphim, Cherubim or Thrones. The Second would be those in the Powers, Dominions and Virtues while the Third would be Principalities, Archangels and Angels.'
The responde was most definitely amused, with a light chuckle thrown in at the beginning.
You know a surprisingly large amount about demons mortal. When I was shipped into your body, I had assumed you to be a petty criminal, almost disappointing really. But then the murders of two Master and a High Master? Now that was interesting. I suppose you received the letter already?
'Yes, I burnt the letter with what little power I had at the time to prevent suspicion. As for my knowledge, I received additional training from the Thaumaturgist Guild, which means I'd probably know more than mos-'
He felt a sudden burst of power emanate throughout the room before feeling his entire body burn in wretched agony before being thrown back into the marble door he had passed through. The sudden impact caused him to start bleeding from the back of his head, with his eyes bloodshot from the sudden pain. He tasted blood in his mouth and found it to be almost boiling as he swallowed it.
Ah. One of them is a Sanguimancer, with the other being an Imperiomancer. An incredibly powerful Sanguimancer at that.
"Sinclair." The female voice responded again, as she apparently stood out of her Throne, though she was still shrouded in shadow. "We do not appreciate such disrespect. Despite my colleagues'.... vulgarity, we would still wish to know who hired you to commit such treachery."
He considered this for a moment and inclined his head, feeling his blood torture his veins in the process as he did so. "True. I apologize for that Madam High Master" he said, with as minimum sarcasm he could manage. The demon spoke with polite sarcasm then.
So what's your plan then Mr. Sinclair, expert Thaumaturgist? How do you plan on getting your way out of this one?
'Depends on what kind of demon you are, then I can make some considerations.'
Ah. Well. As it is, I'm not actually a demon. We Illrians were before Lucifer's ilk. I am from Ou'Rus, the land of the Dead and I was the leader of my kind then, until your awakening and me being called to action. I was not a demon like you are familiar with, and it is likely that my powers be entirely different from yours, though I will still be able to supplement your power with mine.
Sinclair frowned at that.
'Ah. I see. So you won't be able to turn my hand into an axe made out of melted bone like a Demon of Wrath would you Angel of.....Lethargy? What's your name again?'
Well, you may call me Baltreth, Mr. Sinclair.
'Greetings Baltreth. Also, since I'm supposedly a knight now, if I were to guess, I haven't turned into an Illrian yet because....?
You have not called upon my power yet Mr. Sinclair. Once that happens, then you will change.
"I see."
"You see what, Sinclair?"
"Tell me, you didn't recover my weapons did you?"
"And why should we tell you that, Sinclair?" the rough voice came through again."
"An honest answer for an honest answer High Master."
The High Masters noticeably tensed at that, leading to the other guardians to tense and the female Master to respond carefully. "Yes we do. We recovered your weapons after you kept throwing them away."
"Ah. I see."
"Now, a question for you Sinclair. Who hired you?" the female asked.
Sinclair smiled, something that he had not done before and brought the Guardians on edge.
Marble is an interesting material. It was the general description of metamorphosed limestone, which is to say, limestone subjected to incredible heat and pressure. If he was a Pyromancer or Terramancer, he would have used the terrain to his advantage. Limestone was often utilized in blast furnaces to extract iron, and though it was likely to be purified, the marble here would still contain trace amounts of iron, which could be utilized in someway. This alone, to Sinclair, was worthless information. However, with his Imperiomancy....
He recognized the stances of the Guardians around the room. It was fear and wariness, though they were incredibly closed about it. They were on guard for the slightest twitch, and considering that they were protecting the High Masters, they would likely be briefed on all possible attack vectors to them. There have been multiple assassins in the Daggerspell Clan who would use building material like marble to extract iron in which to construct blades, and he knew the Daggerspell and Guardians were not on speaking terms, so they were likely to be knowledgeable of those tactics.
'Hey,Baltreth?
Yes Host?
'While I'd use your abilities to more interesting methods, I'm gonna have to ask you to simply augment my powers. I've kept it as strong as I could over my captivity, but I'd need your abilites to make this stick.'
What are you....Ah. I see. Go ahead then.
Sinclair smiled and spoke. "Daggerspell Clan."
This would be the important portion. The Daggerspell, of course, did not hire him but him speaking of the Daggerspell would automatically mean that every person in this would room would immediately think of the Daggerspell and their magical blades. Hence, making them more pliable to the next illusions.
He raised his hands in the air, catching everyone's attentions. Using these openings, he created the impression of dozens of crude blades erupting out of the marble and racing towards the guards and High Masters. Some did not react fast enough, and the visions caused them to scream in pain as the crude pretend blades pierced their flesh, foremost amongst them the two guards behind him, who believed that 3 blades the size of their legs obliterate their heads, causing them to drop to their knees and go permanently catatonic. Most did 'dodge', allowing him to make his next moves.
His body began transforming, his skin turning a pasty white, with his limbs elongating unnaturally, turning his previously 5'11 height to 6'3. Unnatural strength fed through his muscles causing him to break the steel manacles as he did so. His eyes turned into a wicked crimson energy that began to spill out of his eyes as ephemeral horns appeared over his head. He could practically feel the smirk that Baltreth had developed.
Magnificent. I do wonder how far you'lll go Mr. Sinclair
The guards responded predictably, drawing their guns and swords and attacking Sinclair. He merely jumped towards the walls, ignoring them as he began to climb. He used his Imperiomancy to disturb the gun users, throwing wave after wave of disturbing images from both Sinclair's work and the demon as he climbed. He was a third of the way there before his blood began to boil again, and he felt a supernatural force attempt to pull him down.
Sinclair gritted his teeth and threw the illusion that the High Master succeeded in pulling him down. It succeeded, and he could feel the pull on his blood weaken before he jumped upwards again, his jump pushing him up for meters.
He felt, rather than saw, the destructive bolt of energy that almost eviscerated him and, using his fear and anger, jumped all across to the other wall. He grimaced. He wasn't use to this sort of combat, and any attempt of his to fight back with Thaumaturgy or Imperiomancy would take from him time and effort he could be using to escape.
He was a mere three meters away from the windows when the full force of three High Masters hit him. The Imperiomancer struck against his mental shields, screaming and cursing at him, but was kept at bay by his own shields and the demon's presence. The Sanguimancer began crippling his limbs with her power, while another High Master kept firing destructive energy at him, with one bolt hitting his left arm, burning the skin and causing him immeasurable agony. He wasn't sure why the last High Master wasn't attacking him as well, but he was going to take advantage of it all the same.
With an almost herculean effort, he gathered his power to deceive and destroy. He caused everyone present to believe that one of the energy bolts killed him, causing him to fall to the center of the room. At the same time, he used his touch with the Illrian to augment his Thaumaturgy and fired a massive bolt of infernal energy at the same time, basically masking the ball with his body. As he did this, he jumped the final few meters and crashed through the glass.
Sinclair could feel the heat emanate from the chamber, exhaustion coursing through his body as the energy began to dissipate from his eyes and he panted. He saw, through the corner of his eyes, several figures coming towards him and rose to fight before he blanked out. As he fell, he saw the familiar, crumpled, forms of Guardian operatives around the roof before he fell unconscious.
------------------------------
As Sinclair slumped downwards, exhausted and half dead onto the marble floor, the Illrian Knights gathered around him looked to the shattered mess and chaotic shouting to seize Sinclair below them.
"Well, I can see why the Guardians wanted him dead so badly."
"Indeed. Augmented though his abilities may have been by Baltreth, it was an impressive showing."
"True. We'll have to leave now. Christopher, do you have the Black Nail's weaponry?"
"Affirmative, though it took me considerable time to mask it as a Thaumaturgist assault."
"As it should be."
One of the tall figures picked up Sinclair's form then, and disappeared. It would be twenty more seconds before the Guardians would reach the room.
He stumbled as his foot stepped across a jagged rock, and the Guardian behind him shoved him forward, causing the chains across his ankles and wrists to almost stumble him. He grimaced at the man's roughness, but didn't let it show on his face. He took stock of his current disabilities and attributes, and came to a very grim conclusion. He was currently starved, dehydrated, weak and had a considerable migraine. They had moved him to one of the newer Guardian buildings, which was to be expected, as he wasn't familiar with the building's infrastructure as he was with the others. This, along with aggressive guards and an unsympathetic court would likely mean he'd be executed within the day with the current tools he had.
They eventually came to a majestic marble door, engraved with the history of the Guardians in splendid accuracy. They opened it in roughly, dragging Sinclair through it and, after a few seconds, throwing him onto the floor. It felt cool to his touch, and his experience with Guardian castles, like this most definitely was, meant that it was probably marble as well. Lovely.
He looked up to see a collection of Five Thrones shadowed in darkness, on which were seated four High Masters, with the left most chair being empty and left in the light. He wasn't aware of the current number of High Masters, something the Guardians guarded jealously, but he could tell that four High Masters coming to meet him was a significant occurrence. Something like this hasn't happened in a very long time after all.
A deep, unnaturally stern voice rumbled through his head, and in his weakened state he couldn't tell whether or not it was from an actual voice or from Imperiomancy.
"Alexander Sinclair. Dishonored Guardian of London. The Thaumaturgist known as the Black Nail" the voice spoke, speaking of the Thaumaturgist portion with obvious disgust. "You have been charged with the murders of Master Richard Howards, Master Erlandur, the deaths of dozens of Guardians on duty over the years, the destruction of numerous Guardian facilities as well as the sacrilegious murder of High Master Pharisee's successor and current seater of the Throne of Five Avran D' Arthos. What say you to these charges?"
Sinclair was weak and tired, but he could tell that he was not alone with these blasted old men. He dragged himself to his knees, his head lolling about as he watched his surroundings. There were two guardians behind him, and numerous other guardians lining the walls of this room. There were windows, several dozen meters above ground level which could serve as a possible escape route as well, not that he'd get far. He doubted the Guardians would let such an escape route alone, and there were probably even more guardians there.
"I repeat myself Alexander Sinclair." The Voice responded again. "What say you?"
Sinclair removed himself from observing his surroundings and began to speak to the High Master, "I'm sorry old man, was I to assume this is anything but a mere formality before you behead me and mount my head on your fireplace?" his parched and broken throat nonetheless giving out the full power of his sarcasm and disdain.
The voice grunted in anger, and was replaced with a soothing, yet firm, feminine tone.
"Alexander Sinclair, we are the Guardians of London. It's protectors and judges. We have decided upon nothing as of the moment."
The Black Nail raised an amused eyebrow at that and laughed.
"Be you more the fool then High Master, be you more the fool then." Sinclair laughed out with pleasure. "I did do what you said I did. I watched as Master Howards died to my bullets at close range. I ripped apart Master Erlandur's mind as he laid in the hospital after I burnt his facility down and killed everyone he could conceive of as a friend. And yes, I killed Avran D' Arthos as well. Foolish little man, not very careful at all. He didn't take care of his hair samples after his monthly forays into barber shop now did he? Then again, I expected him to put up more of a fight, being a High Master and all, so I suppose that me sticking around to fire a .50 caliber round into his skull was a foolish move on my pa-"
He staggered to the ground as the guardian behind him sliced his sword across his back, bringing a fiery sensation of pain that seemed curiously dull as he fell. He stayed on the floor, not interested in participating in this farce when a...voice, came to him.
Hmm. Interesting.
"Be quiet Sinclair!" The voice returned again, seemingly muted compared to the almost polite and gentlemanly sound whispering into his ear "You will tell us the names of your compatriots and the one who hired you, and you will be given a swift death compared to what some had planned for you!"
You should listen to him. After all, the last time I checked, you mortals hated pain and all that correct?
Sinclair grunted but did not answer. The whispering voice seemed almost cheerful in it's response.
Ooh. I like that. Proud until the end yes? If I was one of Lucifer's, I'd be very taken in by you.
"Sinclair!" the High Master shouted, the room almost vibrating in his rage and Sinclair's vision blanking out for a few seconds. He noted curiously that none of the other guardians were disturbed. Of course, it was probably that they were merely used to the apoplectic rage the High Master was throwing at the moment, but at the rate he was going it probably meant that he was an Imperiomancer trying to distract him with his rage. He didn't recall any Natural Magic that could release such a reaction through sheer rage alone. Interesting. "You WILL tell us who sent you!"
The Black Nail snorted and ignored him. "So which Hierarchy are you then hmm?"
Excuse me?
'Traditionally, your kind are divided into three Hierarchies.' Sinclair thought. The first Hierarchy being fallen angels that were Seraphim, Cherubim or Thrones. The Second would be those in the Powers, Dominions and Virtues while the Third would be Principalities, Archangels and Angels.'
The responde was most definitely amused, with a light chuckle thrown in at the beginning.
You know a surprisingly large amount about demons mortal. When I was shipped into your body, I had assumed you to be a petty criminal, almost disappointing really. But then the murders of two Master and a High Master? Now that was interesting. I suppose you received the letter already?
'Yes, I burnt the letter with what little power I had at the time to prevent suspicion. As for my knowledge, I received additional training from the Thaumaturgist Guild, which means I'd probably know more than mos-'
He felt a sudden burst of power emanate throughout the room before feeling his entire body burn in wretched agony before being thrown back into the marble door he had passed through. The sudden impact caused him to start bleeding from the back of his head, with his eyes bloodshot from the sudden pain. He tasted blood in his mouth and found it to be almost boiling as he swallowed it.
Ah. One of them is a Sanguimancer, with the other being an Imperiomancer. An incredibly powerful Sanguimancer at that.
"Sinclair." The female voice responded again, as she apparently stood out of her Throne, though she was still shrouded in shadow. "We do not appreciate such disrespect. Despite my colleagues'.... vulgarity, we would still wish to know who hired you to commit such treachery."
He considered this for a moment and inclined his head, feeling his blood torture his veins in the process as he did so. "True. I apologize for that Madam High Master" he said, with as minimum sarcasm he could manage. The demon spoke with polite sarcasm then.
So what's your plan then Mr. Sinclair, expert Thaumaturgist? How do you plan on getting your way out of this one?
'Depends on what kind of demon you are, then I can make some considerations.'
Ah. Well. As it is, I'm not actually a demon. We Illrians were before Lucifer's ilk. I am from Ou'Rus, the land of the Dead and I was the leader of my kind then, until your awakening and me being called to action. I was not a demon like you are familiar with, and it is likely that my powers be entirely different from yours, though I will still be able to supplement your power with mine.
Sinclair frowned at that.
'Ah. I see. So you won't be able to turn my hand into an axe made out of melted bone like a Demon of Wrath would you Angel of.....Lethargy? What's your name again?'
Well, you may call me Baltreth, Mr. Sinclair.
'Greetings Baltreth. Also, since I'm supposedly a knight now, if I were to guess, I haven't turned into an Illrian yet because....?
You have not called upon my power yet Mr. Sinclair. Once that happens, then you will change.
"I see."
"You see what, Sinclair?"
"Tell me, you didn't recover my weapons did you?"
"And why should we tell you that, Sinclair?" the rough voice came through again."
"An honest answer for an honest answer High Master."
The High Masters noticeably tensed at that, leading to the other guardians to tense and the female Master to respond carefully. "Yes we do. We recovered your weapons after you kept throwing them away."
"Ah. I see."
"Now, a question for you Sinclair. Who hired you?" the female asked.
Sinclair smiled, something that he had not done before and brought the Guardians on edge.
Marble is an interesting material. It was the general description of metamorphosed limestone, which is to say, limestone subjected to incredible heat and pressure. If he was a Pyromancer or Terramancer, he would have used the terrain to his advantage. Limestone was often utilized in blast furnaces to extract iron, and though it was likely to be purified, the marble here would still contain trace amounts of iron, which could be utilized in someway. This alone, to Sinclair, was worthless information. However, with his Imperiomancy....
He recognized the stances of the Guardians around the room. It was fear and wariness, though they were incredibly closed about it. They were on guard for the slightest twitch, and considering that they were protecting the High Masters, they would likely be briefed on all possible attack vectors to them. There have been multiple assassins in the Daggerspell Clan who would use building material like marble to extract iron in which to construct blades, and he knew the Daggerspell and Guardians were not on speaking terms, so they were likely to be knowledgeable of those tactics.
'Hey,Baltreth?
Yes Host?
'While I'd use your abilities to more interesting methods, I'm gonna have to ask you to simply augment my powers. I've kept it as strong as I could over my captivity, but I'd need your abilites to make this stick.'
What are you....Ah. I see. Go ahead then.
Sinclair smiled and spoke. "Daggerspell Clan."
This would be the important portion. The Daggerspell, of course, did not hire him but him speaking of the Daggerspell would automatically mean that every person in this would room would immediately think of the Daggerspell and their magical blades. Hence, making them more pliable to the next illusions.
He raised his hands in the air, catching everyone's attentions. Using these openings, he created the impression of dozens of crude blades erupting out of the marble and racing towards the guards and High Masters. Some did not react fast enough, and the visions caused them to scream in pain as the crude pretend blades pierced their flesh, foremost amongst them the two guards behind him, who believed that 3 blades the size of their legs obliterate their heads, causing them to drop to their knees and go permanently catatonic. Most did 'dodge', allowing him to make his next moves.
His body began transforming, his skin turning a pasty white, with his limbs elongating unnaturally, turning his previously 5'11 height to 6'3. Unnatural strength fed through his muscles causing him to break the steel manacles as he did so. His eyes turned into a wicked crimson energy that began to spill out of his eyes as ephemeral horns appeared over his head. He could practically feel the smirk that Baltreth had developed.
Magnificent. I do wonder how far you'lll go Mr. Sinclair
The guards responded predictably, drawing their guns and swords and attacking Sinclair. He merely jumped towards the walls, ignoring them as he began to climb. He used his Imperiomancy to disturb the gun users, throwing wave after wave of disturbing images from both Sinclair's work and the demon as he climbed. He was a third of the way there before his blood began to boil again, and he felt a supernatural force attempt to pull him down.
Sinclair gritted his teeth and threw the illusion that the High Master succeeded in pulling him down. It succeeded, and he could feel the pull on his blood weaken before he jumped upwards again, his jump pushing him up for meters.
He felt, rather than saw, the destructive bolt of energy that almost eviscerated him and, using his fear and anger, jumped all across to the other wall. He grimaced. He wasn't use to this sort of combat, and any attempt of his to fight back with Thaumaturgy or Imperiomancy would take from him time and effort he could be using to escape.
He was a mere three meters away from the windows when the full force of three High Masters hit him. The Imperiomancer struck against his mental shields, screaming and cursing at him, but was kept at bay by his own shields and the demon's presence. The Sanguimancer began crippling his limbs with her power, while another High Master kept firing destructive energy at him, with one bolt hitting his left arm, burning the skin and causing him immeasurable agony. He wasn't sure why the last High Master wasn't attacking him as well, but he was going to take advantage of it all the same.
With an almost herculean effort, he gathered his power to deceive and destroy. He caused everyone present to believe that one of the energy bolts killed him, causing him to fall to the center of the room. At the same time, he used his touch with the Illrian to augment his Thaumaturgy and fired a massive bolt of infernal energy at the same time, basically masking the ball with his body. As he did this, he jumped the final few meters and crashed through the glass.
Sinclair could feel the heat emanate from the chamber, exhaustion coursing through his body as the energy began to dissipate from his eyes and he panted. He saw, through the corner of his eyes, several figures coming towards him and rose to fight before he blanked out. As he fell, he saw the familiar, crumpled, forms of Guardian operatives around the roof before he fell unconscious.
------------------------------
As Sinclair slumped downwards, exhausted and half dead onto the marble floor, the Illrian Knights gathered around him looked to the shattered mess and chaotic shouting to seize Sinclair below them.
"Well, I can see why the Guardians wanted him dead so badly."
"Indeed. Augmented though his abilities may have been by Baltreth, it was an impressive showing."
"True. We'll have to leave now. Christopher, do you have the Black Nail's weaponry?"
"Affirmative, though it took me considerable time to mask it as a Thaumaturgist assault."
"As it should be."
One of the tall figures picked up Sinclair's form then, and disappeared. It would be twenty more seconds before the Guardians would reach the room.
And so my first post occurs. I hope it's acceptable.
Incidentally, think of the Ephemeral horns as the horns that an evil Fable 3 character might have when doing that whole wings/horns combination. In addition, think of the spilling crimson energy like that of Arthas, except red.
Incidentally, think of the Ephemeral horns as the horns that an evil Fable 3 character might have when doing that whole wings/horns combination. In addition, think of the spilling crimson energy like that of Arthas, except red.
Hadrian looked at the letter one more time, before returning his gaze to the castle. He narrowed his eyes at the imposing structure. It was an ugly thing, with the stones that made up the walls looking eroded and rather unstable. The flags adorning the towers were faded, making it almost impossible to see what was on them. The only thing that looked like it wasn't touched by age's harsh hand were the castle doors. He could sense a very strong magic emanating from them.
'It's about time you got here, mongrel.' A whispery voice made itself known in his head. It sounded amused.
Hadrian merely frowned, but paid the voice no further heed, continuing forward with his apprentice, Ryan Blackbriar in tow.
You know, you could have just changed, and flew over here.' The voice chuckled arrogantly. 'All you did by choosing to walk here was waste our time.'
'Shut up, Phaedra.' He adjusted the red cloak on his shoulders. 'I'm not going to be changing anytime soon.'
Phaedra laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh? And why not, Hadrian? With me, you could be so much more than a pathetic little puppy.'
I'm far from being a "pathetic puppy."'
His eyes glowed a bright crimson, as he looked at the castle. He was able to detect several life-forms within the castle with his Sanguinmancy, but was unable to tell who, or what they were. The glowing died down, and he hummed quietly to himself.
'It's about time you got here, mongrel.' A whispery voice made itself known in his head. It sounded amused.
Hadrian merely frowned, but paid the voice no further heed, continuing forward with his apprentice, Ryan Blackbriar in tow.
You know, you could have just changed, and flew over here.' The voice chuckled arrogantly. 'All you did by choosing to walk here was waste our time.'
'Shut up, Phaedra.' He adjusted the red cloak on his shoulders. 'I'm not going to be changing anytime soon.'
Phaedra laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh? And why not, Hadrian? With me, you could be so much more than a pathetic little puppy.'
I'm far from being a "pathetic puppy."'
His eyes glowed a bright crimson, as he looked at the castle. He was able to detect several life-forms within the castle with his Sanguinmancy, but was unable to tell who, or what they were. The glowing died down, and he hummed quietly to himself.
Tell me what you guys think. Pretty sure I'm going to edit this a bit later anyway.
Ryan examined the letter for a couple of minutes not quite understanding the signifigance of the letter or the seal, or even really thinking about what the writing meant. It was obviously important, but the why slipped his mind for the moment.
He heard knocking at his door, he went to answer it but no one there... again. For the past couple of weeks this was normal, probably a game to the initiates, who had for some reason or another had a rumour about him losing his mind spread to them... then again as far as he knew he might be.
The voice that named itself Zariel, invaded his mind almost a week ago now, talking to him everyonce in a while, trying to convince him of the reality of the situation...
He began reading the letter again.
We should probably talk.
You're not real.
You're not schizophrenic.
If i'm not schizophrenic then what could you possibly be other than a paranoid delusion?
I already told you.
The fallen angel Zariel?
Yes.
And you're sure you're not a figment of my imagination.
Yes.
So what you're telling me is that I'm your host.
Yes.
And that would make me an Illrian.
Yes.
Why me...
Because.
Because?
Because I'm screwing with you.
I still have the power to throw you out.
Oh, and how would you do that?
I have a gun.
And what are you going to do with that?
I have a head.
Then we both lose.
But at least the crazy doesnt't win.
Killing yourself sounds a little crazy.
But you'd have to find a new host... or die.
So do you want me to explain the seriousness of the letter?
You're going to stop talking and I'm going to ask Hadrian.
Oh yes the Lycan.
...
He thinks your crazy.
...
Fine.
Good.
He walked off to speak to Hadrian
Gremlin followed him closely behind as he followed his master
Why do you trust that creature?
Who?
The machine.
Because I made him.
And why did you make him?
Why does anyone do anything?
Because.
Exactly.
He heard knocking at his door, he went to answer it but no one there... again. For the past couple of weeks this was normal, probably a game to the initiates, who had for some reason or another had a rumour about him losing his mind spread to them... then again as far as he knew he might be.
The voice that named itself Zariel, invaded his mind almost a week ago now, talking to him everyonce in a while, trying to convince him of the reality of the situation...
He began reading the letter again.
We should probably talk.
You're not real.
You're not schizophrenic.
If i'm not schizophrenic then what could you possibly be other than a paranoid delusion?
I already told you.
The fallen angel Zariel?
Yes.
And you're sure you're not a figment of my imagination.
Yes.
So what you're telling me is that I'm your host.
Yes.
And that would make me an Illrian.
Yes.
Why me...
Because.
Because?
Because I'm screwing with you.
I still have the power to throw you out.
Oh, and how would you do that?
I have a gun.
And what are you going to do with that?
I have a head.
Then we both lose.
But at least the crazy doesnt't win.
Killing yourself sounds a little crazy.
But you'd have to find a new host... or die.
So do you want me to explain the seriousness of the letter?
You're going to stop talking and I'm going to ask Hadrian.
Oh yes the Lycan.
...
He thinks your crazy.
...
Fine.
Good.
He walked off to speak to Hadrian
Code:
[b]~~~At the Castle~~~[/b]Why do you trust that creature?
Who?
The machine.
Because I made him.
And why did you make him?
Why does anyone do anything?
Because.
Exactly.
This is what I could think of...
It was midday, the sun was high up in the sky. It was a perfect day. Kishima was finally relaxing after his escapade in Reykjavik when a man came up to him.
?Good day Kishima! I have a letter for you!?
?A letter for me? From who??
?A man by the name of Silas. It seems to be important. Perhaps your little trip has attracted some attention don?t you think?? with that the man handed Kishima the letter and left.
Kishima started reading the letter and analysing it. After a few moments he could not believe what he just read.
What?s this, he thought. The man was clearly off his rocker. Talking about old gods playing and whatnot. Then again he had just witness a man getting killed by just being touched on the chest so perhaps he should have some faith.
You?re not convinced are you? Stories of Gods? Bunch of rubbish if you ask me.
?What? Who said that??
Are you alright? You seemed frightened.
?This is not funny!?
Funny? I tend to disagree this is pretty amusing for me. Is like you?ve never heard voices in your head before.
?You?re not real are you? And I?m just here talking to myself. I?ve lost it!?
Rest assured you?re not crazy, not sane but not crazy either.
?Then show yourself!?
Afraid I can?t just do that my friend. See I need you as much as you need me so I would suggest working together.
?And If I refuse??
Well there?s only one way of getting rid of me and that?s well unhealthy. It consists of your sword, yourself and lots of terrible pain followed by death.
Kishima contemplated on this for a minute. No if he killed himself he would just give in to his crazy. It would be better to play along.
?Alright what should I call you then??
You may call me Ferous.
?So what are you like a demon or something??
Yes, let?s leave it at that. Your mind is not yet ready to comprehend me. Let?s just say that the moment you decide to use my power you will become an Illrian.
Kishima was lost now. But he knew better than to argue with himself, this was crazy enough.
?Do you know anything about this letter??
I would be lying if I said I didn?t but it would just be funnier for me if I watch you stumble in the dark for some time. I would recommend you do what the letter tells you to.
So with that Kishima packed what little stuff he had and prepared for his journey west. However once he had proven to himself that all this was just a bunch of bogus he would return back to his mission.
-----------------------------
Kishima arrived at the castle a couple of days later.
Well aren?t we going in?
?Not yet, you fool. I need time to make sure that this isn?t a trap. After all the Daggerspells aren?t exactly welcome around these parts.?
Ehh, you worrying about nothing.
?Hmm, we?ll see? and with that Kishima and his new ?friend? Ferous approached the castle gate.
?Good day Kishima! I have a letter for you!?
?A letter for me? From who??
?A man by the name of Silas. It seems to be important. Perhaps your little trip has attracted some attention don?t you think?? with that the man handed Kishima the letter and left.
Kishima started reading the letter and analysing it. After a few moments he could not believe what he just read.
What?s this, he thought. The man was clearly off his rocker. Talking about old gods playing and whatnot. Then again he had just witness a man getting killed by just being touched on the chest so perhaps he should have some faith.
You?re not convinced are you? Stories of Gods? Bunch of rubbish if you ask me.
?What? Who said that??
Are you alright? You seemed frightened.
?This is not funny!?
Funny? I tend to disagree this is pretty amusing for me. Is like you?ve never heard voices in your head before.
?You?re not real are you? And I?m just here talking to myself. I?ve lost it!?
Rest assured you?re not crazy, not sane but not crazy either.
?Then show yourself!?
Afraid I can?t just do that my friend. See I need you as much as you need me so I would suggest working together.
?And If I refuse??
Well there?s only one way of getting rid of me and that?s well unhealthy. It consists of your sword, yourself and lots of terrible pain followed by death.
Kishima contemplated on this for a minute. No if he killed himself he would just give in to his crazy. It would be better to play along.
?Alright what should I call you then??
You may call me Ferous.
?So what are you like a demon or something??
Yes, let?s leave it at that. Your mind is not yet ready to comprehend me. Let?s just say that the moment you decide to use my power you will become an Illrian.
Kishima was lost now. But he knew better than to argue with himself, this was crazy enough.
?Do you know anything about this letter??
I would be lying if I said I didn?t but it would just be funnier for me if I watch you stumble in the dark for some time. I would recommend you do what the letter tells you to.
So with that Kishima packed what little stuff he had and prepared for his journey west. However once he had proven to himself that all this was just a bunch of bogus he would return back to his mission.
-----------------------------
Kishima arrived at the castle a couple of days later.
Well aren?t we going in?
?Not yet, you fool. I need time to make sure that this isn?t a trap. After all the Daggerspells aren?t exactly welcome around these parts.?
Ehh, you worrying about nothing.
?Hmm, we?ll see? and with that Kishima and his new ?friend? Ferous approached the castle gate.
How are you guys doing the colored words thing? 
Silas Grey, wings folded behind his back and leaning heavily on his weathered yew cane looked down from the end of the entrance hall. It was well-polished wood floors and mortared stone walls flying high into the air with stained glass sending a mosaic of color upon the floor. The entrance hall was large indeed and dominated by statues of ancient humanoids from time immemorial. One bore the Grey family name, Beauregard. They were the founding Illrian Knights, and at the end of the hall was a throne carved of the same stone that made the statues. It was in the form of a man holding a blade high, bat wings curving down to make the arms of the throne and horns curling upwards.
"I do not suppose they understand the significance of their coming?"
"They may be ignorant of their full power now, but impending doom has a way of bringing out the best in people."
"And sometimes the worst...can you trust them to work together?"
"I can trust that they will try, and that is all I can ask of them."
Silas settled into the throne, his back and legs feeling the weary heaviness of mortal soil. The arrivals of the new Knights meant that Malachi was wrong, that with Kin vanished there was no hope. But these new Knights were a new hope, a light in the darkness, and Silas would not let them slip from his fingers.
"But what of the Red Knights, Silas?"
"What of them? They have free will..."
"Convince them to join our Knights and lay siege to whatever bastion holds Nicolaus from us."
"They have fled to South America, and they have been building power there. I have no cause to beg them for anything, Malachi."
"Your great grandmother once begged the aid of a mysterious people of eastern Europe. They soon became our closest allies. The Rhyle were once skeptical and mysterious, they came to trust us..."
"The Rhyle are not the Red Knights. If I beg them for aid, they may not come."
"They will come if you prove to them that you and the Conclave mean no harm. They hide because they are threatened, you toppled their order with a few strokes of a pen...they fear you."
"Let them fear me, if I approach them they will balk and hide. If these new Knights, untested and untrained, can convince the Red Knights to join us in returning Kin to us..."
"Perhaps this can be their proving ground, to show their commitment to being Illrian. The gathering of allies is essential to being an Illrian Knight, friends in high places as it were."
"My body is weak, the mortal world weighs upon me like a stone on my back. Speak through me, I must rest."
"As you wish, host. I will awaken you later."
Anthem was a weapon.
He had little doubts of this. The Guardians who took him in treated him less as an Initiate and more as the weapon he was Remade to be. After all, what good was an Initiate with no magical power? A foot soldier, a pawn. Proof against some of the arcane horrors of the world, but with little potential of his own.
So they used him as such.
Carcosa. The Antarian Deep. The Gibraltar Harrowing. Anthem's spindly, metal-and-monstrous body was hurled to the front of a dozen like conflicts. He eviscerated cultists, mutants and monsters alike in the name of justice, his heavy shotgun pulping those that were out of reach.
Through it all, Anthem was numb. A crimson haze clouded his eyes, as acute and finely crafted as they were. Perhaps the power battery in his skull was leaking. Perhaps the constant pain dulled his senses, left him uncaring, unfeeling. Or perhaps it was simply the bloodshed. A creature like Anthem was expendable, so why not pitch him into the worst scenes? Plunge headfirst into the hornet's nest, little hunter. It was raw power and animal savagery that kept him alive, not skill, not training, not humanity.
He was blind in the red mist left perpetually in his wake.
Scene. Wales. Outside a little no-name town, its population kept in fear of something lurking outside their village's crumbling walls. Disappearances, strange lights. The Guardians picked up uncanny energies emanating from a site to the west, some old pre-Arthurian ruin. A Roman fort, stone structures still standing after centuries, if crumbling.
Anthem slithered through the black woods toward the site, three Guardians with him. One was a mage, the squad leader. The other two had rifles. As the Remade glided past ancient trees, he wasn't certain if the riflemen were there to support him or to put him down if he acted up. He didn't know any of the men, but he could sense their unease. He could almost taste it. Their fear was strangely intoxicating, like the fumes of a fine liquor.
A haze fell over Anthem's senses as they progressed, the old ruin looming high on a hill in the darkness. The blue-uniformed riflemen shuffled nervously, though the mage seemed at ease. The mage, a stern-faced, almost avian-looking man, nodded to Anthem and made a single curt gesture. On and forward.
Leading the way.
Twigs and leaves crunched under the riflemen's feet, though they moved with trained precision to take up flanking positions on the archway leading to the ruin. Anthem couldn't help but wince at the noise, though it may not have been audible to any but he. The mage made another series of silent gestures. Forward, then hold position.
They were actually going to back Anthem up. That was a surprise.
The ruin had truly seen better days. The heavy Roman stones, all arches and walls, had crumbled in places. The roofs were long-gone, worn away by time and nature, leaving the walls behind like some kind of ancient skeleton. Anthem could only wonder at the old fort's presence in its prime. It was the sort of fortress that could hold off an army.
As they progressed further inward, Anthem realized that the thickest walls, the most ingeniously-designed though decaying traps and pitfalls, were all directed in and down.
It was less a fortress and more a seal. The realization struck the other Guardians, too, the riflemen stopping and jumping, their weapons turning with mechanical precision at the smallest sound. The only such sounds were those of their own heavy boots on old stones.
The mage gestured for them to stop, then directed Anthem ahead. Anthem knew what was coming. The mage had discovered the worst of the anomaly and wanted Anthem to trigger it. The Remade didn't particularly mind, swinging his spindly form nimbly forward, through a crumbling passage, under a fallen arch, despite a growing scent of ozone. Something crackled across the back of Anthem's neck, like some kind of bizarre inversion of static.
And that was it. The ruin was empty. The seal, a huge stone affair, was smashed, the eathering showing that it had been broken long, long ago. Mosaic and carvings adorned its surface, but the forms were unfamiliar, obscured by the passage of time.
Anthem turned to leave, returning to the hall where his comrades waited. He realized he never even knew their names.
When they failed to appear, Anthem's thoughts immediately turned to betrayal. Of course. They abandoned him. He was unsurprised, stopping to rest against a wall, eyes briefly closing. When they reopened, his gaze lit upon the opposite wall, and the fresh spatter of crimson across it.
Something else was here.
A rapid pattering of taloned feet against stone roused him from his reverie. Anthem was only just able to turn, shotgun rising, in time to catch a glimpse of a vaporous form, all black un-light, smoke, and teeth, before it struck, too fast to see.
Wake up.
Anthem stirred from his position, sprawled against the crumbled wall. His machine body was wracked, his flesh torn in a dozen places by smoking wounds. His metallic hand found solace in the grip of his shotgun. It was a familiar weight, a reminder that he somehow still lived. He lifted his head, searching for the voice, and found only a strange smoldering pile of ashes before him.
You're still alive. Good.The voice in his head was smooth and rolling, like melted chocolate over velvet, sultry and low but undeniably feminine. It seemed to savour the syllables as they echoed through Anthem's metal-plated skull.
Anthem fought to speak, but found that the smoke-thing had, apparently, ripped out his throat. It would heal in time, the voicebox would reform, but he was--for now--speechless.
He reached up with a wracked metal claw to pull himself to standing, his servo-actuated legs nearly buckling beneath him. They were built for speed and agility, not raw strength and solidity, and in their damaged state they were poor for stability, but they held.
Your companions are dead. The Guardians will likely blame it on you. That IS why they were here--your handlers. To make sure you weren't to go unstable. The remains of your quarry are dissolving before you.. No evidence for your case. You can't go back.
The voice's words struck Anthem to the core. They were frank, they were cruel, but they were undeniably true.
What will I do? He thought, struggling as he leaned his ponderous weight against the cold stones, an icy chill permeating his body even through the metal plating.
You're so adorable. You've Awakened. You and I are one. And with this.. you have a chance to be something more. A tool still, perhaps, but one with purpose.
Anthem lifted his head, one bloodshot eagle's eye peering at the moon through a break in the clouds, far above the broken roof of the old Roman fort.
.. I accept. The thought came tenuously. He really had no other choice. Returning to the Guardians was out of the question.
Good. We are Seleda'an.
With that pronouncement, the power of the Illrian daemon suddenly surged through Anthem's broken form. Rent metal and flesh, flowing with sanguine power and the energy of the fallen agnel, flowed together into seamless forms, bleaching porcelain-white. The simple plating warped and transmuted, stained white and taking intricate, curving shapes. The crude mechanics melded together and coursed over exposed, raw flesh, forming into a pair of graceful, skeletal, porcelain wings, skinless and non-functional but perhaps as deadly bladed limbs. As Anthem pitched forward, catching himself on smooth, white metal fingers, a pair of horns grew from his forehead, sweeping gracefully back over his skull even as a fringe of black tendrils emerged from his scalp to sweep back like some mechanical parody of hair.
Seleda'an's influence had warped the crude Remade into something of strange beauty, a porcelain construct of sleek form, like some mythic statue of white marble come to life. Anthem marveled as he struggled to his feet, all too aware of his passenger.
And we, together, make an Illrian Knight.
The letter from Silas Grey found a willing recipient in that Welsh ruin. The sleek figure, so agile and beauteous in its twisted form, traveled north. To Scotland. The other Knights waited.
He had little doubts of this. The Guardians who took him in treated him less as an Initiate and more as the weapon he was Remade to be. After all, what good was an Initiate with no magical power? A foot soldier, a pawn. Proof against some of the arcane horrors of the world, but with little potential of his own.
So they used him as such.
Carcosa. The Antarian Deep. The Gibraltar Harrowing. Anthem's spindly, metal-and-monstrous body was hurled to the front of a dozen like conflicts. He eviscerated cultists, mutants and monsters alike in the name of justice, his heavy shotgun pulping those that were out of reach.
Through it all, Anthem was numb. A crimson haze clouded his eyes, as acute and finely crafted as they were. Perhaps the power battery in his skull was leaking. Perhaps the constant pain dulled his senses, left him uncaring, unfeeling. Or perhaps it was simply the bloodshed. A creature like Anthem was expendable, so why not pitch him into the worst scenes? Plunge headfirst into the hornet's nest, little hunter. It was raw power and animal savagery that kept him alive, not skill, not training, not humanity.
He was blind in the red mist left perpetually in his wake.
Scene. Wales. Outside a little no-name town, its population kept in fear of something lurking outside their village's crumbling walls. Disappearances, strange lights. The Guardians picked up uncanny energies emanating from a site to the west, some old pre-Arthurian ruin. A Roman fort, stone structures still standing after centuries, if crumbling.
Anthem slithered through the black woods toward the site, three Guardians with him. One was a mage, the squad leader. The other two had rifles. As the Remade glided past ancient trees, he wasn't certain if the riflemen were there to support him or to put him down if he acted up. He didn't know any of the men, but he could sense their unease. He could almost taste it. Their fear was strangely intoxicating, like the fumes of a fine liquor.
A haze fell over Anthem's senses as they progressed, the old ruin looming high on a hill in the darkness. The blue-uniformed riflemen shuffled nervously, though the mage seemed at ease. The mage, a stern-faced, almost avian-looking man, nodded to Anthem and made a single curt gesture. On and forward.
Leading the way.
Twigs and leaves crunched under the riflemen's feet, though they moved with trained precision to take up flanking positions on the archway leading to the ruin. Anthem couldn't help but wince at the noise, though it may not have been audible to any but he. The mage made another series of silent gestures. Forward, then hold position.
They were actually going to back Anthem up. That was a surprise.
The ruin had truly seen better days. The heavy Roman stones, all arches and walls, had crumbled in places. The roofs were long-gone, worn away by time and nature, leaving the walls behind like some kind of ancient skeleton. Anthem could only wonder at the old fort's presence in its prime. It was the sort of fortress that could hold off an army.
As they progressed further inward, Anthem realized that the thickest walls, the most ingeniously-designed though decaying traps and pitfalls, were all directed in and down.
It was less a fortress and more a seal. The realization struck the other Guardians, too, the riflemen stopping and jumping, their weapons turning with mechanical precision at the smallest sound. The only such sounds were those of their own heavy boots on old stones.
The mage gestured for them to stop, then directed Anthem ahead. Anthem knew what was coming. The mage had discovered the worst of the anomaly and wanted Anthem to trigger it. The Remade didn't particularly mind, swinging his spindly form nimbly forward, through a crumbling passage, under a fallen arch, despite a growing scent of ozone. Something crackled across the back of Anthem's neck, like some kind of bizarre inversion of static.
And that was it. The ruin was empty. The seal, a huge stone affair, was smashed, the eathering showing that it had been broken long, long ago. Mosaic and carvings adorned its surface, but the forms were unfamiliar, obscured by the passage of time.
Anthem turned to leave, returning to the hall where his comrades waited. He realized he never even knew their names.
When they failed to appear, Anthem's thoughts immediately turned to betrayal. Of course. They abandoned him. He was unsurprised, stopping to rest against a wall, eyes briefly closing. When they reopened, his gaze lit upon the opposite wall, and the fresh spatter of crimson across it.
Something else was here.
A rapid pattering of taloned feet against stone roused him from his reverie. Anthem was only just able to turn, shotgun rising, in time to catch a glimpse of a vaporous form, all black un-light, smoke, and teeth, before it struck, too fast to see.
Wake up.
Anthem stirred from his position, sprawled against the crumbled wall. His machine body was wracked, his flesh torn in a dozen places by smoking wounds. His metallic hand found solace in the grip of his shotgun. It was a familiar weight, a reminder that he somehow still lived. He lifted his head, searching for the voice, and found only a strange smoldering pile of ashes before him.
You're still alive. Good.The voice in his head was smooth and rolling, like melted chocolate over velvet, sultry and low but undeniably feminine. It seemed to savour the syllables as they echoed through Anthem's metal-plated skull.
Anthem fought to speak, but found that the smoke-thing had, apparently, ripped out his throat. It would heal in time, the voicebox would reform, but he was--for now--speechless.
He reached up with a wracked metal claw to pull himself to standing, his servo-actuated legs nearly buckling beneath him. They were built for speed and agility, not raw strength and solidity, and in their damaged state they were poor for stability, but they held.
Your companions are dead. The Guardians will likely blame it on you. That IS why they were here--your handlers. To make sure you weren't to go unstable. The remains of your quarry are dissolving before you.. No evidence for your case. You can't go back.
The voice's words struck Anthem to the core. They were frank, they were cruel, but they were undeniably true.
What will I do? He thought, struggling as he leaned his ponderous weight against the cold stones, an icy chill permeating his body even through the metal plating.
You're so adorable. You've Awakened. You and I are one. And with this.. you have a chance to be something more. A tool still, perhaps, but one with purpose.
Anthem lifted his head, one bloodshot eagle's eye peering at the moon through a break in the clouds, far above the broken roof of the old Roman fort.
.. I accept. The thought came tenuously. He really had no other choice. Returning to the Guardians was out of the question.
Good. We are Seleda'an.
With that pronouncement, the power of the Illrian daemon suddenly surged through Anthem's broken form. Rent metal and flesh, flowing with sanguine power and the energy of the fallen agnel, flowed together into seamless forms, bleaching porcelain-white. The simple plating warped and transmuted, stained white and taking intricate, curving shapes. The crude mechanics melded together and coursed over exposed, raw flesh, forming into a pair of graceful, skeletal, porcelain wings, skinless and non-functional but perhaps as deadly bladed limbs. As Anthem pitched forward, catching himself on smooth, white metal fingers, a pair of horns grew from his forehead, sweeping gracefully back over his skull even as a fringe of black tendrils emerged from his scalp to sweep back like some mechanical parody of hair.
Seleda'an's influence had warped the crude Remade into something of strange beauty, a porcelain construct of sleek form, like some mythic statue of white marble come to life. Anthem marveled as he struggled to his feet, all too aware of his passenger.
And we, together, make an Illrian Knight.
The letter from Silas Grey found a willing recipient in that Welsh ruin. The sleek figure, so agile and beauteous in its twisted form, traveled north. To Scotland. The other Knights waited.
Anastasia walked into the room, looking at the throne at the end of it.
"Just a pile of nerves, aren't you girl?" She thought to herself in a whisper.
She saw Silas on his throne. It had been... how long had it been since they had seen each other.
She nodded at him "Silas..." Her voice had a tint of fear in it. Not panic, not chaos, but a deep fear for what was to come.
"Just a pile of nerves, aren't you girl?" She thought to herself in a whisper.
She saw Silas on his throne. It had been... how long had it been since they had seen each other.
She nodded at him "Silas..." Her voice had a tint of fear in it. Not panic, not chaos, but a deep fear for what was to come.
"[font color=purple]Young One[/font]" said Malachi, taking the place of Silas who rested in his own alert body, now Malachi's to keep. The Illrian Knights began to arrive, some sleek...others nervous. Summoned by a cryptic message, an old rhyme used to summon past meetings of the Maledictum. In the halls of this place were the shadow wraiths that kept it, nothing but wisps of black mist with skeletal faces and tiny hands. They flocked in the belfry and the flying buttresses, curious as to the return of their old masters but knowing not the four hundred years that had passed.
Malachi's eyes were a dull purple, and he rose to embrace Anastasia. "[font color=purple]You've arrived just in time.[/font]"
Malachi's eyes were a dull purple, and he rose to embrace Anastasia. "[font color=purple]You've arrived just in time.[/font]"
She hugged him closely. A tone of gratefulness in her response. "Thank you for this." Her weariness of the current events showing. "Are you well?"to she spoke to Malachi as if he were Silas and vice versa. She took his arm and led him to his seat.
Kishima watched the exchange between Anastasia and Malachi with a bored expression.
<font color=green> Well they seem happy to see each other. How boring. Aren't you eager to find out why you are here?
Unable to contain his boredom and eagerness any longer, he spoke up.
" I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude but I have just travelled all the way from China looking for the answers to this weird letter I received. So could you two save the pleasantries for later and tell the rest of us why you have bought us here and why we are possessed my God-knows-what?"
<font color=green> Well they seem happy to see each other. How boring. Aren't you eager to find out why you are here?
Unable to contain his boredom and eagerness any longer, he spoke up.
" I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude but I have just travelled all the way from China looking for the answers to this weird letter I received. So could you two save the pleasantries for later and tell the rest of us why you have bought us here and why we are possessed my God-knows-what?"
And that's right about when Anthem entered.
The towering porcelain creature entered the great hall with eerie grace. So neatly melded with Seleda'an, it was difficult to say which addressed the group.
"We are here as summoned." Its voice was melodic, with both Anthem's smooth, musical tenor and Seleda'an's own sultry tones in varying levels of dominance. It made for an unsettling effect.
And then the creature merely waited patiently by one of the support columns, appearing so much as the statue-- or strangely formed doll--it resembled.
The towering porcelain creature entered the great hall with eerie grace. So neatly melded with Seleda'an, it was difficult to say which addressed the group.
"We are here as summoned." Its voice was melodic, with both Anthem's smooth, musical tenor and Seleda'an's own sultry tones in varying levels of dominance. It made for an unsettling effect.
And then the creature merely waited patiently by one of the support columns, appearing so much as the statue-- or strangely formed doll--it resembled.
Hadrian looked at the creature, a bit unsettled by it's appearance. When it spoke, his eyes lit up in recognition.
He had seen Anthem back at headquarters, but they rarely, if ever, spoke. They only went as far as knowing each others names. Having read his dossier after his first encounter, he made it a point to avoid speaking with him when it wasn't necessary.
He had no doubt that he may hold some animosity towards him, due to him being a user of Sanguinmancy.
Phaedra cackled cruelly inside of his head. 'Hadrian, I do hope you aren't planning on speaking with that miserable abomination. You should just let me end it's pointless existence right now.'
'I do recall telling you to shut up earlier, daemon *****.' Hadrian let out a low growl, only loud enough for him to hear. 'I suggest you get on that.'
He looked back at Anastasia, and the one who he assumed was the one who invited him here.
He had seen Anthem back at headquarters, but they rarely, if ever, spoke. They only went as far as knowing each others names. Having read his dossier after his first encounter, he made it a point to avoid speaking with him when it wasn't necessary.
He had no doubt that he may hold some animosity towards him, due to him being a user of Sanguinmancy.
Phaedra cackled cruelly inside of his head. 'Hadrian, I do hope you aren't planning on speaking with that miserable abomination. You should just let me end it's pointless existence right now.'
'I do recall telling you to shut up earlier, daemon *****.' Hadrian let out a low growl, only loud enough for him to hear. 'I suggest you get on that.'
He looked back at Anastasia, and the one who he assumed was the one who invited him here.
Just a bit of a fluff post.
"Hello Hadrian ...." she said, unsure of exactly where they stood. She had been a ***** to him, but she secretly hoped it had been enough time since then for time to heal those wounds over. Besides, it wasn't what she wanted to focus on right now. She had grown up and was no longer the out of control volcano she used to be, and if she had to prove it to him, she would, but not now.
Hadrian looked at her seemingly impassive... At least until he spoke.Hussmann54 said:
"I truly wasn't expecting you, of all people to be here, Anastasia." He said venomously. "Done being a petulant, relentless harpy, I hope?"
So much for impassive.