Witch
Nu Guardian
Storyteller
Posts: 11 
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Post by Witch on Apr 8, 2014 21:52:45 GMT
 For so long, he had felt nothing. He had stayed obediently on his makeshift throne of snow and ice, immobile, waiting, dreaming. A sheet of the Ice Wastes had come to cover him entirely as he sat as still as a statue, but not as a prison. No, it was merely a second skin. He had not known then what he was waiting for, but he did now. He had completed the final steps of a path he began so long ago, back on that fateful day his land was ravaged by the ferocity of a foreign invader. Solar Dawn, and his black templar La'ruta. This path had led him across the face of the world, to death and back, and now to this icy chamber and open sky. He had forsaken all he once held close to his heart, offering the last pieces of his humanity along with his soul to the peerless darkness that now gripped him. Alastor, alone in his unadulterated glory and power, slowly opened his eyes. The lids of ice covering them cracked at the gesture, falling from his face in small shards like frozen tears. Thin, gray lips curved into an almost brittle smile beneath the ornate helm that covered his white hair and pale skin. More of the ice cracked and fell from his awakening, slowly shifting form; they were the fragments of an icy shell that he no longer needed. He was awake. "It has begun." |
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Witch
Nu Guardian
Storyteller
Posts: 11
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Post by Witch on Apr 8, 2014 21:57:18 GMT
The remainder of the ice that shielded his body struggled against him for only a moment before it shattered, falling to the snowy ground as Alastor stood. He rolled his shoulders and neck as if to exercise muscles he had never used, sending rippling sounds throughout several bones and joints of his upper body. His grin turned into a menacing smile as he tasted the cold, crisp air of the Shawnee region, reassuring him that he truly was awake. He had not noticed it yet, but his rune blade, which he called Torment, was still safely tucked away in his grasp. "Now then," an almost dual-tone voice of pure bass rolled from his parted lips. "Let us proceed." With the mere adjustment of thought, his mind was opened to the invisible world of undeath. Thousands -- no, hundreds of thousands -- of voices and cries populated his thoughts simultaneously in a sea of incoherent madness. Any lesser mind would have been instantly shattered beneath such magnitudes, but Alastor barely winced at the abrupt intrusion. He was searching for something amidst the haze of lost and wandering souls, and it only took him a moment to find it. It was the figure of a dragon, now nothing more than ancient bones hinged together by rotted sinew and deteriorated muscle, that was painted against the darkness of his closed eyes. The resurrection of such a powerful beast would have strained even the most talented of necromancers, but the entity seeking this creature now was far beyond talented. The ghostly beast could barely muster a roar before the rune covered edge of Alastor's sword bore through its skeletal torso, tearing it clean in two. He wasted no time in feeding his blade the fresh ruin, and Torment greedily devoured all of it.  Having ensnared the first of many subjects to come, Arthur's eyes snapped opened. Waving his empty hand into the nearby fog, the snowy veil began to twist and turn, quickly settling into a defined form of existence. While merely a misty shade at first, it wasn't long before etherealness gave way to corporeality and the ice covered bones and metallic draconic armor became very real. The necromantic aura that had saturated the area, solely from Alasor's presence, breathed a new life of servitude into the hollow construct in the form of a pale blue flame. It appeared at the center of the beast's large, fleshless, exposed chest, as if it was suspended by some invisible force. Then suddenly, it surged up then entire length of its torso and chased itself out across two enormous, half-folded wings. Yet, neither the ice nor the spiked armor adorning its body melted as the licking flames all but consumed it. When it reached the helm, matching flames sunk into the eye sockets of bone, and it was followed by a tumultuous, core-shaking roar that was torn from the creature's throat. Casually, Alastor situated himself on top of the vanquisher's back, and the beast shuddered gleefully - almost mindlessly. The time had come for him to finish what he had started. He spoke, yet his lips did not move. To Nevus Sacrum |
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