Fight:Titan of Winter, Titan of War
Gualon City Plaza
The new city square of Gualon, this tiered quad is stocked with decor and feat of design, the small canals that feed from the fountain-pool to the north continuing their journeys almost unnoticed. Levelled in such a way that the grand square consists of three plateaus, the lowermost, and that which navigates the perimeter, designed in crosshatch fashion. Alternating black marble and onyx slabs, mimicking a gigantic chessboard, serve as surface for sole, hoof, paw and wheel, the surfaces polished and repaired regularly by the city maintenance crews. The second of the triad begins five slab rows in from skirting of the surrounding buildings, a small flight of steps leading to a vast square of kimberlite, a precious rock of blue tinge, polished and stripped of the diamonds within and utilised as material for the city square. The third is a circular base of elvan stone, a hardy material and specimen awash with tiny ovals of quartz that catch light of moon or sun to give illusion of a tiny pool of glittering stars. At the centre of this earthbound stratosphere stands the symbol of New Gualon; a great tree crafted entirely from bronze. From the base of sturdy trunk to tip of highest branch, the inanimate carving of perfection resembles entirely the form of a grand Sycamore, a true masterpiece of sculpture, every knot and miniscule crevasse upon the metal skin consolidated into depiction of meticulous craftsmanship. When season requires, ladders are set against the sides of this grand testament, lanterns hung from the branches and their tributaries, ribbons slung between, that the image appears to give off sense of life, though the only truth to this would be that tree which gave the idealistic workmen inspiration. A house appears available for rent along the western borough, south and north lead along the main road of the city. East takes into the grand garden parks of Gualon.
Hadrian stands before the symbol of Gualon, the bronze tree arcing up high above his head in yearning to reach the sky. He is here in his simplest of forms, that which his life began in. The strain required to maintain this Human form is visible on his face; his face is heated, jaw clenched tight, and viens bulging against the power attempting to force him into submission. Constanine, Hadrian's everpresent shadow and protector, stands off to the side of the plaza, his eyes locked intently upon his charge. Beyond him, rank upon rank of the Murum Mors stand erect in full battle armor--as if prepared to launch into an assault on the city. But nay, their feet remained checked in place; a formal farewell to the one they called leader. Hadrian's brow is covered in sweat, his mind's eye contemplating the choices he has made to arrive at this day. Would Rawnie be safe? He keeps a groan from escaping past his lips, when she is brought to mind. He knows she would not be happy that he was facing off against Eboric in single combat. His silhoutte is cast against the sparkling ground at his feet, if only to be consumed by the monsterous shadow that serves as the Headquarters of The Damned to his left. How he despised Vuryal, and hated what he did to Gualon. What he did to himself. His sentries had reported Eboric's eventual arrival today, so Hadrian stands a man, grimfaced beneath the eyes of the Gods on high. He would have his vengeance this day. Vengeance upon those damned Gods. He would no longer be a puppet and with the end of the day, so to will his service to them end, regardless of the battle's outcome. He had decided.
Eboric arrives in the plaza, marching in from the north. He wears his hauberk, and his arm rings, but apart from that he is protected only by simple leather leggings and boots, having chosen to leave his heavier armor behind. He carries Eidhur, the black sword, drawn since the day he had heard of the oathbreaking, and his elven axe, bared in his hands. But while the warlord is bold, he is certainly no fool, and behind him come the ranks of the Aethlinga Gedriht; huge, bearded warriors brought from west of Frostmaw, or else from the east, on Rynvale island. The force is large enough that it goes unmolested, allowing the werebear to approach his former thegn. "Hadrian," Eboric calls from a short distance away. "It is time."
Hadrian watches Eboric, his former Commander, arrive with his army, like a sweeping thunderhead on high. What those clouds insinuate would be war, like lightning and thunder clashing together in bitter rivalry. His face slackens and he gives Eboric a nod, and if one were to look close enough, they might catch a solemn look sweeping across his features before the power surges through him. Like an unchecked, undammed flood, it pours through every fiber that forms him. A raging brushfire to consume his very being, Hadrian wails against the pain of it, cries against the power so suddenly instilled within him. The bronze tree issues a grating noise, as if crying in unison with Hadrian as he rises in staggering height, forcing the tree above him to give way against the rapidly changing Gladiator. Smoldering heat rises in plumes from him, his skin cracking and dropping away, to yield in way of the Ghroundium Golem coming to life. "Eboric," Comes the pain stricken voice of Hadrian, "Do not let up, do not cease." He issues a roar of violent offering in the direction of the Aethlinga, "For reckoning has come this day, a retribution for the defeated and glory to the victor!" His glowering gaze lofts skywards, as his body's transformation reaches its completion, "I am Hadrian, fathered by the hand of an ascended being and I welcome death this day!" His echoing voice a sick grating of metal against metal. He here now, stands the ultimate definition of a being wrougth in hellfire and borne unto war. He settles his glare upon Eboric, a metal bound arm blindly reaching for the tree that earlier served as the monument, the sigil of Gualon. His burly hand pulls it free from the earth, to wield it easily beneath his raw might as his chosen weapon for the time being. An unearthly howl booms from his magically fabricated mouth, as he bounds towards his adversary. Beneath the eyes of his army, beneath the eyes of the Gods, does Hadrian lash out in a most unforgiving fashion with that tree, intent upon crushing Eboric beneath any given one of those twisted, gnarled bronze branches.
Eboric, as his foe begins to transform, barks a short order to his thegns. "Watch his men. If they move to help, kill them." He seems entirely confident that, should such a situation arise, no other outcome would be possible. After that order, however, the warlord is done with speech, concentrating all of his attention on movement. As Hadrian pulls up the tree, he runs forward, feeling uncommonly agile without half of his armor. Thus, when the uprooted monument whistles around, the werebear is not there to receive the blow. Rather, he is inside the golem's reach, ducking the swing of Hadrian's arm and, as he speeds past, he strikes with his axe. The blade of that axe, once only enchanted with druidic magic, now holds arcane power as well, a gift from the queen Satoshi. Where its blade strikes metal, rust driven by the power of ice and wind will break out, spreading like wildfire and eating toward the very heart of its target. It is this, then, that Eboric unleashes on Hadrian, meaning to scratch the arm as he runs by and, continuing on, hews left and right, hoping to damage his foe's legs, rusting them out from the ankles up. Regardless of his success, the Aethling continues on, knowing that his hope of survival depends on constant motion.
Hadrian effortlessly smashes the bronze tree into little more than a twisted mass of metal, cracking the ground in an easy show of his brute strength. Eboric's quick escape from his last position is not a worry to Hadrian, who simply discards the weapon, unfeeling as his foe clashes his weapon against his metal-wrought body. He can already begin to sense the magic at work, sweeping into him. What a bother. A simple bother, Hadrian decides, as he releases his hold on the core. Fumes of frigid air seep out from every crack in his fabricated body, faster than a thought, it engulfs him like a shadowy wraith come to take host in his body. Were Hadrian able to grin, he would, with sheer ignorance of his possible defeat. The frigid air seeps out from him, to consume the otherwise humid, stagnant air of Gualon. His body begins to glisten, as if covered in a sheen of sweat, and then suddenly does it solidify. Magically crafted armor, sparkling against the twin moons in silent command of its wielder, covers him from head to toe in a frozen cast. The sweeping magics of rust and corrosion cease beneath the freezing temperature of frigidity, keeping what was rusted protected, and gaurding the rest of his body from further damage. He howls in defiance, forcing his entire weight to spring up from the ground with strength befitting a God. Seconds later he'll land, sending a crushing wave of earth and debris flying every which way, in the wake of a arcing and cracking ground. His eyes find Eboric and he decides to give further hesitation to the bold man. Hadrian claps his hands together, sending a gust of hurricane force winds surging at the unprotected Warrior. And with the force of that clap, does the armor upon his hands shatter, lift up in the winds, and hurl towards Eboric to pummel him relentlessly like a human pin cushion.
Eboric grits his teeth against the cold, but with his life on the line, he does not stop. He circles around the heaving golem, stumbling to his knees as the ground shifts and cracks beneath the weight of the minion. Recovering, he starts to run again and, as Hadrian smashes his hands together, the warlord makes a headlong dive for the relative shelter of the fallen, crumpled tree. The winds catch him then, and he smashes shoulder first into a bent bough, spinning his body around into a roll. The shattered armor follows, and while most of it strikes the fallen tree, a few pieces hit home, lacerating the werebear's unarmored legs, scraping along the mithril rings of his hauberk. With a silent grimace of pain, he forces himself to rise again and, slipping the axe through the loop on his belt, tears from around his neck a dragon's claw, taken from a red dragon in Eboric's youth. This in hand, he rushes his foe again, ignoring the blood darkening his breeches. He slams the claw toward Hadrian's inner ankle, hoping that the fiery essence of the trophy's former owner will shatter that icy armor. It is then, too, that Eidhur's magic begins to act, calling upon those vengeful wights of the fallen, who swarm, unseen toward the golem, their otherworldly might focused on breaking the beast, on cutting him off from the woeful magic that warps him.
Hadrian grunts at first, feeling the ever-tightening presense of those fallen, encircling him in a fashion so as to suffocate him from the power he has been granted. Granted at the price of his soul! He'll not have it. Taking a firm hold on his very essence, Hadrian ignores the gouging tooth, sinking into the ice at his ankle. He will have his glory, he will have his name remembered forever! The former Gladiator forces all of the ice to peel itself from his body, forming a brittle, yet horrid weapon in his hand--a wicked flail. The weapon isssues a drone whistle, his arm spinning it relentlesly, until it reaches a speed he approves of. The flail cries out, hissing with frigid promise, whilst racing toward the earth with unforgivable momentum. Beneath the raw strenght of Hadrian, the Ghroundium Golem, does the earth give way and so too, does the flail. It shatters into hundreds of shards of glass-like projectiles, splaying out every which way. Some shatter against the metal form of Hadrian, others strike the shields of prepared Murum Mors and more yet scythe their way into the crowd gathered a bit too closely. The frigid air, seeping from the wielder of such a frightening weapon, suddenly whips out, like lashing spirits come from the underworld, seeking to rend flesh here and there--flesh to yeild against the bitter essence of frozen air brought to arm. He might be slower than Eboric, but Hadrian does have an advantage; his metal-laden form is unhindered by the fervent catastrophe ripping asunder the plaza of Gualon. Those spirits pull at his subconscious, urging him into the inability to continue this battle, but he will not yield, not yet.
Eboric does not repeat his attempt to hide behind the tree. This time, waiting until the icy flail has already begun its descent, dashes toward his enemy's leg, tossing the claw aside in favor of the axe once again. By the time the ice begins to fly, he is already attempting to clamber up the golem's craggy leg, Eidhur shoved hastily into his belt so that with one hand, he can haul himself upward, while with the other he can bounce the axe again and again at his now-unprotected foe, hoping to release yet more of that swift, magically-enchanced rust. It is then, however, that the cold can be felt, and it bites deeply. Numbed, the Titan drops to the ground, axe spinning away from nerveless fingers that scrabble for the hilt of his sword. He manages to draw it, and rise to one knee, but the bitter cold assails him again, threatening to freeze the very blood in his veins. It is a cold unlike anything Eboric has felt, but it awakens once more that slumbering soul within him, the hateful spirit of the dead king, Alimer, whose sword and legacy the warlord bears. The cold to him is like that frozen battlefield, so long ago, when elf, giant, and human fought and died, when Alimer himself was slain, and that memory drives him into a frenzy, wrenching Eboric's near-frozen limbs into motion, driving him up with a roar of rage. Moving more slowly than before, yet more purposefully, the Aethling once more tries to climb his enemy, Eidhur's black blade seeming to drink the moonlight, yet at the same time to glow with a dark flame. The core, that bit of ice that powers this wind, this cold, this very golem; that is what the werebear seeks, to plunge the hallowed sword in, to remove it from the metal frame, while the dead Kuronii warriors fret at Hadrian's bonds, seeking to drive him out, a simple human once more, to meet the punishment for his betrayal.
Hadrian releases a horrid roar of utter hatred, a sick sound of grinding metal and scraping rock. To defean and pierce the ears of any within range of that blast of sound. His attempts at defeating Eboric go fruitless and he cannot maintain hold upon his current state for much longer. To think, a mere man has defeated him. The rust that seeks to burden his entirety consumes him, the spirits call to him like a Banshee at work. And for the first moment since his turning, he has his first lucid thought. He is going to die. Eidhur plunges into him, betwixt plates of shifting Ghroundium, its power to coalesce with the ice buried deep within. And now he can't move. Or at least, not the way he remembered to move. A blinding light erupts from every crack, every gap of metal upon Hadrian. Sending the world plunging into the sun it would seem, for the briefest of moments, before that golem ceases all movement that might suggest it's life. Hadrian, as he was the day upon his changing, rests upon his knees with an eternal scream upon his lips. But as the frights of hell ebb, reality sinks in. He remembers. He knows. He can see the form he once was, the terrible Golem he had harbored, towering before him like a colossus come to cast the world into an eternal darkness. A forlorn look is offered to his men, "Constantine," comes the hoarse voice of a man left for an eternity in hell, "See to my last orders." His eyes lift up to Eboric, glistening with a sheen of sadness for what he has cost the Warlord, "See to it, then." Hadrian lifts his arms out to the sides and lowers his head, "I have had my glory." Hadrian would die whole... as he had wanted.
Eboric drops to the ground, struggling for control. The frozen core drops as well, rolling toward the waiting thegns, who at once stow it away for their lord. Approaching the kneeling man, Eboric seems at last to regain his own mind, forcing the long-dead king back to the furthest recesses. "You have, Hadrian, and in remembrance of that, I will let you keep your tongue and hands. But you must die all the same." His voice, though fatigued, still carries the note of command, and even a hint of sorrow. He reaches out to push his former friend's back, meaning to knock face first onto the shattered ground. Once there, the Aethling kneels, using Eidhur to carve a line down Hadrian's spine, forcing the sharp black tip through each rib as swiftly as possible. He repeats the action on the other side of the spine, before setting the bloodly blade on the grass. With hands still numbed from the cold, he reaches down to pry apart the torn back, cracking the ribs apart in what must certainly be agony for the gladiator. Then, almost delicately, Eboric reaches into the gory hole he has made to take hold of the lungs, still heaving with breath, and draws them out to lie like horrid wings across the exposed ribs; the only just end to an oathbreaker's life.
Hadrian does nothing to stop Eboric at his grim task, the pain a distant memory of the life that he once had, but nothing comparable to what he suffered in hell. With his last few breaths, does Hadrian whisper a silent prayer to whatever might be beyond, that Gualon will forever be watched over. His body slackens, a last wheezing breath to escape, and then Hadrian, a man from Gualon, peacefully drifts into the afterlife. Constantine watches undisturbed, the events that brought the course of his commanders life to this end. It is as he had thought. "Lord Eboric," he steps forward, breaking rank. "I am Constantine, Commander of the Murum Mors and General of Hadrian's armies. I have been commanded to serve you." He lifts a hand, signalling a few men burdened by something, to step forward. "Hadrian has ordered these be given to you, upon his death, to prove your salt in battle and your victory against Hadrian." The first item brought, is a weapon fabricated from that same metal that created Hadrian's form--metal not made by the earth, but hand-made by an Ascended Being. Ghroundium, intricately etched from the core that once resided within Hadrian, it is fixed into a masterwork blade; at the pommel rests the hooked claw and paw of a bear in a swipe. Far too heavy for any one man to wield, they place it at Eboric's feet. The second item is a breastplate, with wicked designs of battle, fairytale heroics, and glory seamelessy fixed upon the pauldrons. The rest of the plate lies bare, as if to suggest Eboric's story is still not finished. It too, is placed alongside the sword. Constantine clasps a fist to his heart, one last glance given to Hadrian, before he issues a, "Strength to Eboric, Son of Penda. Our Commander and Leader." The entire army behind hollers the same words, following the fist to heart in salute.
Eboric rises from his work, his hands and hauberk stained red with blood. As Constantine begins to move, the waiting thegns of the Gedriht step forward, ready to defend their lord, but Eboric waves them back, choosing instead to listen to the general's words. When he is finished, and the gifts have been brought, the werebear nods and at last speaks. "I thank you for your gifts, Constantine, and I welcome you and your men to my service. I will take oaths later, at a more fitting time and place." He raises his voice then, fighting away the weariness of his fight to address the Murum Mors. "Men of Hadrian, men of Constantine! Once, your former commander swore fealty to me, and offered to bring you to my side. He broke his oath, and died for it. Yet, he died with honor, and you remained true to him to the last, proving that you yourselves are men of honor. My Gedriht will swell in both numbers and valor with your addition, and this I vow to you, that while you will be thegns of my warband, you will remain a group unto yourselves, keeping both name and sigil. Constantine will retain his position, and will ever have a seat on my councils of war. Serve me with honor, and you will gain both glory and riches! I will give you back your homeland, and more besides!" This last shout is accompanied by a similar salute, fist to blood-soaked chest. Apparently considering that he has said all that is needed, the warlord gestures for his new thegns to once more take up the burden of Hadrian's gifts and, alongside Constantine, leads his troops, both old and new, back up the road to the north.