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Revision as of 14:47, 6 August 2012

Temple Fallout

Scattered across the sand, like a labyrinth long forgotten, here upon this location is the elaborate though broken structure of a time long past. Once a place of worship and enlightenment, all that remains now are jagged rocks and crumbled illustrations. Depictions of Kaizer and Solaris in all their glory, of the strong-willed warriors fighting alongside and against them, line the perimeter and, eerily enough, despite this building having been virtually eliminated what feels like many years ago, there are, depictions of the dark immortals Khasad and Elazul as they once again rise up to bring death terror and bloodshed to the land. Before them lays a sea of blood and skulls and behind them a terrible path of charred blackness and horrific inferno consuming all. It would appear the people who once called this foreboding desert home were fine seers and could prophesize deep into the future. The final horrific depiction seems to be not of the dark brethren but something completely new. The picture does not show random destruction and death but merely a dark silhouette of what appears to be a multi-limbed female form covering the land. You struggle to guess what this could mean but then presume that the seers could not have known otherwise they would have given a better picture, though a part of it seems to be obstructed by a loose, hanging cloth. You could leave the way you came or examine more of the strange and exotic murals that remain half buried here lost to time in the sand.

Slintora was staring off at the horizon of the deserted expanse, his eyes glazed over with lack of sleep and his overall demeanor lessened due to his lack of passion that usually ran through his veins. The only thing he wore at the moment were his bracelets and a pair of loose-fitting pants, the nerves in his legs having been fried by Serena the day before, although he still couldn't stand up. Only reason he was able to be sitting up now was because he was propped against one of the many fallen temple's pillars. He wanted to just go back to sleep. Hibernate for another few years and see what has changed. However that would not happen as long as there was pain.

Kasyrs' hunt for the minotaur is no longer based on the sporadic possibility for a chance encounter, Slintoras' latest slight having served well and true enough to drive the Revenant into pursuing his prey to the full extent of his abilities. It's for this reason that the typically trenchcoated Kensai has forsaken his iconic bit of clothing- if only so that he can soar through the dry desert winds, an ominous shadow painting the sands in his wake. Guided by his empathy, and an overbearing desire for vengeance, the Revenant bears down upon the temple, with an ominous entourage of blackened 'tears' in space following alongside him.

Slintora turns his gaze to the skies, not even bothering at the moment to put any effort into escaping. He had been found. There wasn't much else to do except ensure that another came to replace himself. All the while he was pondering if it was really worth to fight. Should he try to talk it out or just give in? Instinct told him to fight, to retaliate, but his mind told him to do nothing of the sort. Rapidly the locks in his mind were released, all his anger, passion and rage flowing out in ribbons around him. This also served to obscure him in a thick mist swirling of pink, scarlet and violet. Coalescing into a miniature storm surrounding the male that slowly sapped himself of his own power and allowed it to flow into the cloud. As it happened his confidence rose, the glaze vanishing while Kasyr got closer. "Come on you bastard. Come get me." was all he said, muttering to himself as red slits await for the flying form to strike.

Ranok || Eyes catch the unmistakable sight of Kasyr soaring through the skies. Not just in the desert, but presumably over parts of Kelay and Gualon. The trip from Frostmaw to the Nameless Desert crossed over a good many territories. And Ranok had scouts and informants well paid to hand that information to the smith. Scouts from The Fold outpost, average joes on the street, you name it. Ranok adds two and two together. Kasyr heading in such a straight line really only meant one thing: something was up. That meant Ranok should probably care, given the Kensai's propensity to show up when things get what can only be called 'real'. So, it is with some grumbling, a setting aside of any plans the rest of the day, and resetting the 'We have gone this many days without an explosion' counter as a matter of precaution, the smith would begin to travel himself to the Nameless Desert. At first on griffon back, a runner's griffon on loan from the Eyrie twice borrowed, and eventually, on foot as he hits the too rugged areas where plains met desert. He would be traveling a third way, but not so soon. Kas would reach his destination, surely, before Ranok even reached the entrance to the desert.

Ranok isn't at the temple, yet, but is on his way. Kasyr moves much faster then Ranok can, especially since information was being relayed to him.

Kasyr is able to feel the build-up of energy at his chosen destination, those caliginous 'cracks' that serve as his accompaniment swiftly solidifying into the guise of a twelve Obsidian broad swords. After all, whilst Slintora doesn't rate anywhere near as high a threat as Vuryal- animals backed into a corner can sometimes prove a threat. The fact that the minotaur is, by this point, obscured in a mist of magical energy only serves to reinforce the Revenants chosen plan. A plan that is simple in its brutal elegance, as all it requires Kasyr to do is dive down towards the minotaur...albeit at such an angle that a portion of the temples wall (and what remains of its roof) resides between himself and his prey. After all, between momentum, raw unnatural strength, and that mess of sinister sibilant blades- the kensai should have very little problem in slamming into and -through- the edifice, thereby leaving Slintora to contend with a sizeable amount of falling stone, as a whole section of the temple ruins collapses ontop of him. Moreover, it doubly serves as a veil for those blades which would continue to effectively bombard the area- whilst granting Kasyr a certain degree of cover (however temporary).

Kasyr shouted, "Slintora~!"

Slintora continues to watch, the mist condensing even further as the reservoir continued to empty out of his body. The swords were hardly intimidating to the pyro. Then again he thought he could take anything. At this point he knew that he would lose, but that he would survive, that was a determined fact right now, and that is all that mattered. Right hand held out, a pyre of swirling flames forming to become Zephyr, his sword of granite. Throughout the sheath a deep resonance of power fought against the runic binds that held the sword within its immense casing. At the same time his left hand idly gripped his belt and latched onto his favored pouch, the one that held his deck of cards. They were retrieved as he used the broken pillar and his sword to prop himself up into a painful stand, favoring his left leg while the other remained curled against the body. By now Kasyr was smashing through the roof of the temple that he wanted to rebuild, destroying precious religious material. That could have been what snapped and sent him over the edge. He had no worry of the fallen stones, being outside of the temple in the first place but now he would have to build a brand new roof from nothing. He would have preferred restoring it to its former glory than replacing it. Oh well. Mists flowed around him thicker and heavier until eventually the manifested emotion surrounded the temple in itself. "Yes?" he muttered

Ranok || Booted feet bite into the red earth of the transition between the land of Sand and Sun and the land of Life and Green. Not that Ranok was overly concerned with matters. He was born of the desert, after all. And he'd even brought a companion that didn't mind the heat: that inky black blob. Who, at the moment, sat proudly atop Ranok's hat, ruby eyes glinting in the light something awful. Hands reach into duster and pull out sand goggles. Fingers button up the duster, pull a sand cloak over his features. The desert really liked putting sand in places you didn't know you had. But the heat would be welcome after the dreary cold of Kelay in winter. And then, finally, the final method of travel. Carried along with the man on his back, a polished wooden board, set onto the ground. Sand protests gently from the compression. Hands pull a tightly furled cloth, strings coming off it. A wooden handle, grasped tightly. And then an effort of will to push some of his personal energy into the vambrace upon his wrist. The wind obeys his call, and the sail snaps out full and white. And then, the entire assembly moves. Ranok begins his trek in the direction Kas had beelined towards, sailing on the dunes by the power of the wind and his harnessing of simple physics.

Kasyr, given that he had not fallen under (direct) attack, simply floats back a bit, choosing to linger outside of the haze of emotion made manifest. The kensai is, after all, more than familiar with the premise of Wisp magic, having encountered another user of it a long time ago in the form of Syadon... and wielded it, due to his former nature as a Tiefling and the fact that he had devoured Eladamris soul. Instead, the Revenant simply begins his own machinations, that multitude of maiming implements (Commonly referred to as swords) now finding themselves the recipients of Kasyrs energies, specifically an invocation of wind based magic. A very specific manipulation of said energies, in fact, as the Revenant is endeavouring to build up a considerable force within each of the buried broadswords, in an attempt to create a number of localized vaccuums, funneling errant debris to their vicinity (and possibly a bull, as well). From there, all it takes is a minute exertion of the Revenants will to set those weapons into motion, broadswords to begin churning through the temple grounds in a circuitous motion, to stir up even more stone and sand, the inevitable intent resting upon the creation of an improvised vortex that would bludgeon and grate apart whats found within.

Kasyr said, "Frostmaw won't kneel to you. Ever. Nor will it burn for you."

Ranok didn't even need visual cues. He could just follow wherever the energies were most getting kicked in the nuts. That was where Kas was. The sandsurfing that the man was doing was swift, practiced, and fluid. He'd done it a time or two before, gone into the desert to test on more then one occasion. His trip was lagging behind Kas, his pace much much increased. Eventually, to the temple the smith would stop. Heat pouring off the sands as the sun pounded down, sail drooping as the wind was forcefully taken from it. Goggled eyes survey the scene. A temple, in the process of being ruined. Dust devils being kicked up all around. Fire, ample amounts. The man frowns. That kicking up of sand was dangerous, nearly the point of deadliness, if it was twisted in just a way. Predictable Kas. The Kensai always forgot the need of things to breath, though superheated sand would put anyone on their knees. He wasn't going to wade into that, not yet. Ranok's blobby companion beheld the dust devils with as much wonder as Ranok held them in contempt. But the blob was fairly easy to please.

Slintora didn't even bother with watching. As Kasyr was building energy, he was letting more out. The flow of his passion and rage still going strong even if anger had died down into a gentle stream. Soon Pink and Violet were overtaking the crimson mists. He was covered in the manifested emotions. From his other eye, he released his spirit, the serpent of fire. The ethereal being flowed from his body, knowing already what was to be done. Swords descended to the ground and Slintora's hand smashed the granite pommel of his blade. A bright flash of light followed and the runes lost their power, becoming dull and lifeless. The hilt split in half and slid away from the real hilt of the sword that lay within the sheath of volcanic stone. Sparks flew as hand gripped the handle and slowly pulled it out, "I have no desire to take over Frostmaw or make it kneel to me. I want to restore the desert to what it was. A paradise for those lost and cast from civilization. This realm used to prosper. I will return it to glory. The army will be vast no doubt, but I do not plan on striking against Frostmaw." he growled, whispering to the glowing blade, "Sing for me once more my old friend." Zephyr rang out with a resounding ring. Driving it deep into the sand, the three foot long blade dug into the land with ease. Even with the powerful suction of the rotating blades, he was not pulled in. It was immediate as well the reaction of the condensed mists, receding from around the crumbling and destroyed temple to surround their master in a tower of malice and dark intent. Crimson lightning bolted in between the thickening cloud. It even began to swirl around its lord of the flame. At the same time he was focusing, the sword holding him in the ground as if it weighed a ton and couldn't be lifted. The rest of his stuff however was sucked in, his bombs exploding on contact with the spinning wall of blades. The anger in the male known as Kasyr was great, and would be taken advantage of. His powers in general were heightened after all being in the most desirable climate. He attempted to feed off the vengeance and anger that the kensai held, adding the energy to his own build up that rose around him.

Kasyr doesn't particularily heed Ranoks presence, beyond a curt backhanded wave, and a slight inclination of his head to the side. After all, whatever bit of banter might have ensued is promptly tossed aside as he becomes distinctly aware of something tugging upon his emotions- those ethereal strands being plucked upon by something -other- than him. Bit by bit, the Kensais expression darkens, that ambient rage that was already present growing all the more intense- and yet it would not feed into Slintora. No, experienced as the Revenant is with his own innate variation of wisp magic, the Kensai simply proceeds to devour that ambient energy which lies resting within his vicinity- the likes of which serve to further fuel the tempest he's creating. After all, whilst Slintora seems capable of being able to resist being pulled into the gale of earthen debris, even as it begins to funnel up towards the heavens- avoiding it as it begins to crawl across the sands towards the Minotaur is different breed of monster, "So you s"Whoa, Censored"t from both ends. Well, let that be your epitath." Kasyrs wings beat furiously now, those monstrous leathery wings being put to use- both for the sake of resisting the furious tempest being born, and slowly edging back (albeit favouring the side Slintora is on. And all the while, small crackles of electricity begin to sound off in the air around the kensai, sparks birthing and dying like a thousand tiny fireflies.

Ranok raises his arms, "Hoi. Doze he like to talk." The maelstrom growing, apparently, as both men war over its control. One to stand steadfast, the other of rage and motion. But Ranok was the one of stone, not Slintora. Of metal and unbending will. And Ranok knew how to bend even the most stubborn of iron to the shape he desired. Those hands gently grasp. The vambrace flashes in the light of the sun, sculpted wind held still. Slintora might be in his element, but the desert was Ranok's blood. Sand. Wind. Sun. All were his heritage. If there was one climate he would ever claim mastery in the traversal of, the desert was it. Those winds were familiar to him, the hands that sculpted the dunes day in and out. Hours spent watching. Tens. Hundreds. Thousands. Years. Did it matter, how long in relative terms, that he watched the wind, felt it on his skin? Hardly. He knew it. And more importantly, he knew its Name. Discovered over the course of years and recently accelerated in recent months due to that very vambrace upon his wrist, he had teased out understanding as much as he could. It was not whole hearted, nor complete mastery. But he could call it by its Name when he choose to do so. And so he did. Crisp, clear, utterly dominate, the word snaps out, "Wind." True Names were strange things indeed. Their nuance was not in just the name, the letters, but the shape of them, how it was said. Imperfection, even in the slightest, failed the calling. Nor did Naming grant utter mastery over the element. Naming was more in understanding, shaping an object. To order a material to go against its nature through Naming was unnatural, and had its costs. But Ranok was not ordering the wind to be still. No, the man was bending it, ever so slowly, to his will. He'd done this once, before, at the top of the tower in Xalious. He'd made mistakes. Paid for it in days of comatose. He wasn't entire sure his sanity was complete. But he'd learned. He'd learned enough to direct those winds, ask them to flow the way he wished. And that way was quite specific: tear those mists from Slintora, deprive the man of whatever visible energy he was building. Tear them and spread them to the four winds, a task the volumes of air would gladly accomplish. By themselves, they would do little. The maelstrom might have the ferocity, but not the direction. Ranok gave both fury and direction, amping the wind via the vambrace and then harnessing it. Slintora would soon find himself in the middle of a much larger maelstrom, control being tugged every which way.

Slintora was at this point in the game crouched down over his sword, one leg holding hip up while the hilt of the sword flashed. The blade crackled and a bright flash pierced the cloud. It was too late for Ranok. He tried to intervene at a bad time because although the heavy mists were being pulled, it was what they were made of that mattered. Condensed emotion. The light that pierced through the thick crimson hues was both brilliant and blinding. It was the signal of an explosion, a small amount of energy dissolving Slintora and teleporting him elsewhere. The miniature explosion made a man-sized crater that was filled with a smooth glass surface, the sand having caved in to the heat and melding as a single material. The burst of energy also was the catalyst for the cataclysmic explosion that ensued. Anger (the crimson mist) was ignited first, a hot red plasma expanding outwards towards rage, the violet mists igniting and launching towards passion. Passion took the most heat to ignite, and with anger and rage working in tandem, passion burst into life, the thick fog expanding outwards from the tower form into a massive dome that spread to envelop and incinerate until it was stopped, or the emotion ran out. No longer would wind have any factor, the sands were billowing every which way but being melted and reforming as glass at the incoming wave that was pressing outwards under the hot desert sun. All that would be left when it was over was a layer of pure anger and malice, being laced into the glassy surface itself.

Kasyr grimaces when he takes note of that sudden expansion of emotional energy- as he's more than capable of perceiving Slintora suddenly vanish. Still, whilst his dissapearance does serve as yet another frustration to pile upon the proverbial camels back (after the last one was broken courtesy of Skrill), there is a particular silver lining to this murkey cloud. Without Slintora to maintain the constant tug of war between those ethereal strands of emotion, the Revenant is giving full access to a sudden deluge of energy. Though not enough to drain the Minotaurs parting gift in its entirety, it at least serves to reduce the ensuing chaos- as not-a-hurricane-but-a-twister 'Ranokasyr' (It's a bad name, but shu'up) is suddenly engulfed in a series of explosions which tear up across its lengths. After all, whether or not Slintoras' magics needed to heed the call of the tempest, the fire certainly does, as does the wind required to fuel it. This being said...that still leaves the problem of a large flaming tornado that's been pulling fuel from all twelve of the kensais wind charged broadswords, Ranoks naming, and the additional surge of empathic energy that shoots right through it. Especially when its' form is already unstable and warping from Slintoras trick. Without further ado, and with the tender affection of countless motes of molten glass now flicking through the air, the Kensai simply gives Ranok a look- before he dives right down towards the man, left hand outstretched. "Brace yourself." The trick here is, Kasyr is really only going to be present for a few brisk moments- as Gospel is going to form in his other hand- the Kensai quite intent upon dragging his occasional companion up- so that he can effectively launch them forward in a few erratic bursts of electrical energy. Problamatically enough, the Kensai isn't able to quite afford the same degree of protection to the man as is provided to his own person, so Ranok is still going to have to deal with the woes of shock by proximity, kinetic friction, and momentum. But- well, at least it would be somewhat mitigated- albeit at the heightened cost of most of the flesh on Kasyrs right forearm searing away in a shock of electricity.

Ranok wasn't a chump. He was a goddamn Motan. He was Ranok De Zard, a man who's motivations were suspected but never truly grasped. He'd come to this land for his own reasons, his own purposes, with experience in matters that a good many would simply boggle at. He would not fail, nor would he be stopped. His mastery of the wind was incomplete, but his willpower was harder then any metal forged. And he had Draeta to help. The intelligence imbued in his armor flares to life, a trio of electric blue lights flaring more intensely then whatever fires ignited by the moronic minotaur. Two minds work towards one goal. Kasyr's attempt to reach out was noted, but the man was too deep to respond. Whether Kas grabs Ranok anyways was up to the Kensai. And, of course, Kas would be Kas, and Ranok would be tackled to the ground to be yanked away. The smith was holding fast, though. All wind was wind. Theoretically, one could Name the wind and touch all parts of the globe, but the concentration would be astronomical. This was still local. The twister bulges, twists, careens, like a creature wounded. Where Ranok may have failed, the stabilizing nature of Draeta, the entire purpose of the armor to aid Ranok in such things. Being tugged away, the pain, it didn't matter. Focus. Shape the iron. The wind screams in protest in the man's mind, but he whispers to it back. Soothing. Patting. Many a pap was made. And shooshing. A scant second had passed, but an eternity to Ranok. Like a top about the fall, the twister was moments from shredding and fiery death for the surrounding area. And then...not. A sequence of events. The wind grabbing the sand kicked up from the explosion. Not all would be turned to glass. No heat can be that intense and summoned at will by a mere mortal. The sand absorbing the heat, a great conductor. Kasyr eating much of the driving force behind the would-be out of control maelstrom. The maelstrom harnessed for another purpose. Into the atmosphere, the heat rising. A sheer torrent of fire, right upwards. Heat backsplash inevitable. But Ranok had enchantments, fire wards. Heat wouldn't decimate him, any more then the heat of the forge would. The wind held, more and more under his control. What was an explosion's force of concussion but wind to a very specific purpose? The goggles that hadn't been removed preserve his eyes, the sand cloak doing the exact same with his skin, the utter worst deflected, absorbed. Then that fiery twister would *bend*, from vertical to horizontal, the heat and force channeled right into the very temple. The stone temple would take the beating of a hundred sandstorms in mere moments, but such was the sacrifice of things. And then it stops. The outpouring halted, the wind dying and fickle once more. As it all dies, he was left behind. Unstable, but functionally whole, though his mind was hurt, again. He would recover much faster, however. He even manages a small question. "Draeta. Do you think you can eat the mist." Deadpan. Almost as airy as the wind he'd harnessed, almost despondent. But the intelligence ponders this. {A valid question.} A voice that whispers to all in the area, {I do not know. Blood is energy. I have not attempted to absorb non organic energies.} Ranok offered no reply, but the two were old, old friends. Draeta knew what the man would ask. {I would try, but it seems that much has already been consumed.}

Kasyrs' expression is locked into one of utter contempt, not even a shred of contentment found in the 'rescue' of his compatriot, even as they come to a halt within the sand some ways a way. The kensai could, after all, feel Ranoks will so intently focused upon that monstrous gale- and so the revenants only contribution is the minimalistic 'banishing' of those 12 monstrous broadswords which had been twisting and gyreing at twister 'Ranokasyrs' core (Note to self: never tell Ranok that twisters name). Still, when Kasyr actually does bother to turn his attention towards the area behind him- he can't help but appear somewhat puzzled as the twister is effectively upended into the temple, an addition being made to his internal check list of things to do. Really, the only thing the Kensai can think to do in that moment is to pull his goggles over his eyes as a final tide of sand pours out from whence the twister died. "I suppose I ought to say hello, et that it was good to see vous. As it currently stands, I intend to find something to eat. Possibly a bull." Those words accompany the Revenant flexing his right hand, a wince elicited by the raw flesh and sinew laid bare by the invocation of his abilities.

Kasyr isn't exactly lying either, as he intends to use the monstrous dose of Slintora's emotional energies that he had consumed to effectively track the minotaur down- like a primitive form of a G.P.S.

Ranok spends another minute in near silence. Then another. He wasn't gone, not as he was after the tower. But channeling something so fey, so hard to grasp as the wind? The mind needs to adjust. Thankfully, he hadn't tried to swallow too much. In the mean time, Draeta picks up the slack, communicating for the mostly unresponsive man. <One could likely say that turning the winds into the temple was unnecessary.> Perhaps an under, or over statement, really. The trio of lights that was Draeta's avatar had died down to 'lightbulb' intensity, from 'the sun' it had been previously. <Give him time. He will come around. The kite was shredded, however. And I do not know if he could call the wind a second time today. Certainly not now. We may need assistance exiting the desert.> Ranok was sloooowly becoming more animate. Hands cover his face, and a very long series of curse words, unintelligible swearing, simple hard to hear gibberish, and a copious amount of foul mouthed outpourings. Ranok was, evidently, not in a good state of mood. He wouldn't answer questions yet, however.

Kasyr acknowledges Draetas request with a slow tilt of his head, before he simply endeavours to use his considerable strength to heft up Ranok. Frankly, the Kensai does have the benefit of being undead- and whilst his right arm certainly doesn't feel golden, due to the self imposed 'wound'- it's not enough to hinder the Revenant from using it. From there, Kasyr simply moves to fly out from the desert 'Tout-de-suit', as it were.

Ranok recovers, on the flight there, hopefully safely. Knowing Kas, though, Ranok would likely have to jolt into motion sooner then he'd liked. But, for now, he was just along for the ride. Draeta offers no further comment, either, instead choosing to conserve energy with silence.

Kasyr is just intending on dropping Ranok off in Kelay, given that- as much as there is technically a bounty upon the mans head, it's relatively considered neutral ground, and also one of the largest clusters of people willing to meddle for the sake thereof. It also is, incidentally enough, close enough to an area that Ranok can sidle away to Vailkrin- where the Institute of the Black Library can, grudgingly, house him.

Part 2 of Kasyr's hunt for Slintora