RP:Academy Altercation - Dance with Devils, Tangle with Trolls
Part of the The Ice Plague Cometh Arc
Runs parallel to The Ice Queen Cometh.
Open Snowfield
As has been the norm since declaring war, another battle has broken out in Frostmaw territory. This time, the Exiles have targetted the Royal Academy of Aramoth, hoping to catch the school offguard and put it under siege. Plans have not gone quite as intended, however, for the academy is defended and ready, word having travelled swiftly through Frostmaw. With the aid of remaining Eyrie forces and the Sage elven rangers' forestry knowledge, forces are on the move to intercept the Exiles. Already fighting is underway between the leading warriors of the enemy army and the first lines of defense for the academy, their conflicts churning the snow into a dark and blood mire while each strives to fend off the other.
Dogma :: A figure in dark armor stepped forward its sword waved in the air. Behind the figure rows upon rows of the ice trolls marched in almost creepy synch. His voice quickly rose higher then before as if giving commands in the angriest and most brutal of languages. In the very back of the ranks, smaller and weaker trolls, Where busy passing out ~Massive~ boulders of ice and rocks. It would take a few minutes since the trolls honestly wanted to smash and feast on the defenders of the school. But it didn’t matter with a few more grumbled words of hatred the trolls would prepare themselves. And then...” Fire!” All the trolls cocked their arms as one then hurtled the massive boulders of ice and rock towards the defenders. Why block out the sun with arrows when you could block out the sun with hunks of deadly deadly ice! With the sudden distraction of the boulders of ice in the sky the ice devils would suddenly come into play. *Blinking* to the tops of the quickly traveling boulders. Now it was time for the death knight commander to step forth once more screaming his dark curses and words towards the defenders. Suddenly, the boulders over head would shatter turning into a massive array of hurtling ice javelins meant to break and destroy the will of the defenders as the ice trolls would be unleashed to be allowed to thunder across the area, In the sudden confusion that would be caused by the raining ice javelins would allow them to *blink* to the ground to tear into the defenders with frightening efficiency. The sudden cold presence the devils gave off would work in perfect tandem to the fear inspiring sight of an entire division of ice trolls thundering across the battle field.
Tristram had returned to Frostmaw some time after a message found its way to Gualon, that the orcs were presently engaged in battle. He'd gathered up Terra, as promised (under duress) and his strange investigator friend, Serrure, buried them in furs, and headed off for the chilly climes of Frostmaw. The orcs had encountered a band of chimeras, creatures they'd never fought before, which seemed, initially, indestructible -- a blow to the orcs' morale. Never before had they come across an indestructible beast. After losing enough brothers to force some kind of conclusion, one way or the other, the orcs set upon one chimera with such fury that they literally rendered it, piece by piece, across the field of battle. Discovering its weakness -- dismemberment by all appearances (as the jewel had fallen in the snow, unnoticed, in their hacking away at the creature), their resolve stiffened, and their efforts were renewed. Most of the small band had been dispatched when they heard battle cries from a short distance away, and then saw the shadow of a black dragon, similar in shape enough to Tristram, that they assumed it to be them. The battalion's leader organized the remainder of his warriors, and they moved as one unit to the newest melee, leaving the small fraction of chimeras in pieces in the snow behind them, some without those curious jewels, while others continued to squirm and writhe on the ground, possessed of those jewels, but missing all their limbs. Tristram met them, prepared for battle in human form. He joined Sirroc, the Orc Chieftain, and allowed the orc to catch him up to speed. He could see the field of battle spread before him. The enemy was attacking a building, but it did not yet appear under siege, or surrounded. He exchanged some words with Sirroc and they began plotting a flanking maneuver, keeping to the trees to conceal themselves as they navigated into the best position to flank their enemy, surprising them when they burst onto the open snowfield.
Terra had nagged her way into attending. She had not forgotten the sight of the arena after Tristram's last return nor did she stray from their agreement. For now she followed where Tristram led, looking more the part of medic then someone geared for a battle. The amount of orcs left did not escape her attention and a muscle in her cheek jumped when she was informed of the target- an Academy. It seemed cheap. Serrure, their company who had secured a ride to the frozen city was searched for... She didn't seem all too comfortable in his presence, constantly worried he'd be swallowed up in all those furs or carried away on the wind.
Serrure is full of regret. All the expensive furs in the world cannot put his heart or his stomach at ease as he soars over the white landscape on the back of that great black dragon, clinging tight to his scales and doing his very best not to look -down-. In the back of his mind he's glad for the clothing - at the very least, he is undoubtedly warm, protected thoroughly from skirling winter winds and the frost-tinged air, though every breath is still a knife in his lungs. That, perhaps, is the only thing the investigator can take comfort in. Dropped off a ways from the commotion with Terra, Serrure can only offer Tristram a wide-eyed look and a mumbled 'good luck' before the man is lost among the orcs and Serrure is left unsure of his current standing. Back in Gualon, he'd heard talk of a battle in Frostmaw and either been invited along or asked to join the governor...he can't quite remember, now. But he'd shrugged at him and said (he remembers the words with a wince), "What's a battle or two?" Now he's here, it is rather obvious that those were hollow words of false bravado. Serrure looks a little out of place amidst it all, and he's not even on the battlefield. For now he'll crunch his way through the snow to Terra, having fallen behind at some point or another when his steps faltered and theirs carried on. The very least he can do is try to ensure her safety, even if all he knows of the woman is her name - and even that reached him in passing, as they had little time for proper introductions with all the preparation going on. Right now does not seem the time for it either. Oh, where is Brute...
Kasyr had made his way towards the Academy at the first mention of the impending attack, something which afforded him ample time to make his own preperations. Mind you, these preperations essentially consisted of finding a nice rock to sit on near the front of the building, before then gathering a small assortment of swords to make a rather shoddy 'fence' about his position. Of those, there's none that are particularily noteworthy, save for the large black broadsword, Vesper, which rests partially imbedded in the ground in front of himself. Once sorted, he'd just proceeded to sit there and chain smoke, allowing a thin shroud of snow to slowly accumulate across his trenchcoated form. Well, until that mass of darkened shapes are sent soaring skywards, if only to begin hurtling down towards the Acadamy- a sight which causes the revenants jaw to abruptly crook to one side, his expression somewhere between bewildered and impressed. And yet, even as he rises to his feet, the situation begins to change yet again- as the monumental hunks of ice hurtling towards the Academy fragment and shift, and a myriad mass of sinister shapes dislodge and dissapear from that rain of rime. The revenent's cigarette drops from between his lips, a brief look of uncertainty flickering across his features- and then his hand snaps out to grab one of the swords adjacent to himself, coils of electrical energy already beginning to pool about his fingers. In one smooth stroke, that blade is sent arcing out from the ground in a spray of slush and superheated turf, and then promptly released as it reaches the apex of it's arc- relinquished not to gravity's caress, but rather to the raw electrical force sent surging through it, sending it hurtling into the midst of the icy shrapnel. And without pause, the Kensai simply grabs another of the swords adjacent to his person and repeats that action, his intent simply being to mitigate the damage that would otherwise be done to his position, vis a vis either the alteration of the projectiles trajectories, or their outright obliteration. Over and over, he continues in this manner, until Vesper, and a pair of Icy-blue Katana's remain. He needs to leave himself -something- to break.
Dogma appeared on the battle field. Umbra, the drake that had bonded with him during the last fight had lifted him on wings of haste as the duo soared to the defense of the drake’s home. The crusader had one cause and only one cause. The massive giants that had turned their back on the way of Aramoth. They say there is no fury like a woman scorned, Well that was almost correct, in truth the there was no fury like a god scorned. Aramoth has sent him here for one job and one job only. The conversion of the Giants back to the light of Aramoth or the brutal death and destruction of the entire bit of defectors. Adorned, already in his full battle platemail, the newly reforged blade *Vengeance* rang from its sheath as the holy sigils along his body lit up as he drew in the divine might of his god. The drake stayed high in the sky as they both watched the Brutal display of raw might and magic as the ice javelins slammed into the ground raining all around. Then the thundering of trolls as they rushed across the ground to join in the killing with bare hands. The Avian and drake would fly on further into the pack of enemies intent on finding and completing the goal his god had set for him.” Lets go Umbra !” The thrill of battle and war hummed in his blood.
Tristram trudged through the snow with Sirroc, trying to keep up with Sirroc's orcish gait that even his own purposeful stride couldn't counter. They surveyed the field from the cover of the trees, finalizing plans until the signal to advance was given. The orcs needed little else. Into the heat of battle they charged, forging ahead to meet those Ice Devils in the snowfield, hoping to gain some tactical advantage by the ambush. It wasn't long until the Ice Devils began to port from place to place, momentarily triggering a break down in the orc ranks as their enemy literally disappeared from in front of their eyes.
Dogma :: The ice devils teleported about the area. The sudden soul wrenching cold wrapping about the area of their sudden appearances. Where the orcs had been the the ones to start the ambush now the Ice Devils had flipped the ambush appearing from behind the orcs, reaching out to grasp and and touch with inhuman strength. Then a sudden blink, and massive swirl of snow as a truly ancient looking ice devil appeared to stare down the backs of the orcs. With a massive intake of breath the ice devil let loose a ear wrenching, soul crushing shriek. At the sudden screech nine trolls turned to the side and hurled themselves at the orcs arrival. Slamming massive fisted hands to crush, bash and swat away the orcs. A few of the trolls would reach out to snatch orcs from the ground taking massive bites of the orcs ripping them physically in half and chewing on the orcs as they turned the corpses into make shift clubs, Nothing was quite as demoralizing as being beaten to death with your comrade in arms. Meanwhile ! As kas unleashed his sword strokes the death knights guffawed waving forward a few of his brothers as they thundered across the area riding their tamed frostmares. Leveling spears and lances as they danced about the trolls, that had crashed into the frostmawian defenders like a rolling wave of death. the death knights would growl curses to weaken, blind, and slow the revenant. Suddenly from behind the revenant the sudden feeling of soul crushing cold would appear suddenly as the ice devil would attempt to grapple the vampire, Right as the first death knight would attempt to ram his lance through the man’s chest.
Serrure had been making his way to Terra's side when he pauses abruptly, one foot hovering inches above the ground. He turns on the spot before he puts that foot down; actually he falls over, tripping on his cloak and getting tangled up, after which a moment of frantic flailing ensues as he tries to pull the heavy thing away from where it wrapped around his leg. Eventually, at least, he rights himself. Grey eyes are surveying the area now emptying as the orc battalion -- what's left of it -- surges forth to meet their next enemy, an area where the snow is already blood-soaked and littered with bodies, the injured being carried back into the tree cover while the corpses of the chimeras remain where they fell. It's the latter that Serrure has taken interest in, cautiously approaching one of those that seems to have been left slightly more intact than the others - it's missing a limb here and there and part of its main head has been caved in by some bludgeoning weapon, but he thinks it might still function well enough...if he can get it started up again. Not fazed by the disturbing plethora of parts uses to create the abomination, the twisted remnants of faces and their silent death-screams, the man traces his hand along the length of the body, only halting when his boot nudges against something half-buried in the snow. Bending down, he picks up a chunk of fluorite and dusts it off, turning the gem over in his hands and frowning. This is his art, really - the processes are very similar, or at least close enough that Serrure is able to catch on quickly. His thoughtful expression quickly brightens into a delighted look of sudden understanding, his happy little smile reflected in the gem. "Oh! I see! That's very...very interesting. Very efficent. Explains.. a lot." Muttering under his breath, Serrure turns, waving to Terra with his free hand and calling, "Do you have a knife I can borrow?" Good first conversations are to follow, for sure.
Terra watched as the eleven rangers took their marks from various heights and points on the Academy's building. Kasyr was not alone down there. Arrows rained down, a constant barrage. Their targets were the giants, still further off in the distance but an easier target since they remained solid. Tips were covered in cloth, dipped in oil and set ablaze as they were shot from the well strung bows of practiced marksman. Of course, not all would be safe as the flickering forms of the beasts moved too quickly, impaling some while others tumbled from their rooftops positions to the snowy banks below. The blonde, safe from the war zone as for now, felt a familiar itch in her shoulders and checked on Tristram's position before she started to advance. A knife... Something about a knife... Her attention swayed, settled on the stranger and what pieces he had collected at his feet. "Yes. Don't you?" Who came to a battle without one? Her own cloak was hiked up so she could dig into the side of her boot and get the tool he inquired about. The hilt was offered towards him and her absence from the field continued she asked, "What did you find?"
Tristram unsheathed his sword and charged with the rest of the orcs. He found an opponent, crashing against him in a clamor of metal and striking swords. He fought fiercely, managed to get the upper hand, until suddenly, his enemy no longer existed. He spun around. No one. Just the battle raging around him. A nearby troll slashed at an orc and Tristram joined that fray; together, the two managed to take down the troll. It was little cause for celebration. There were dozens more, and it was obvious the tide of battle was not in their favor. Sirroc, upon observing the chaos and destruction caused by the trolls, shouted at the rest of the orcs, who shifted their stalwart focus from the teleporting devils, to those large tusked trolls, who were not so completely different from the trolls found within the swamps of Gualon as well. They'd fought the trolls countless times before during territory disputes; these were an enemy with whom they could properly engage, calling on their training from practically infancy to the present. Tristram, meanwhile, had fallen out from the heat of battle. He'd managed to kill -- by sheer, dumb luck -- an ice devil who'd teleported nearby with its back to him. Now, he was cutting a quick path back the way he'd come. He found Terra and kissed her cheek. "You have your bow?" It was all the information she needed. He disappeared, and when he returned, it was in the shape of an immense black dragon, who alighted only long enough to accept Terra as a passenger before taking to the skies again.
Kasyr s' fingers were already beginning to coil about the hilt of one of the Katana's that yet remained to him when he felt the first of those arcane curses hit him, as it sought to wrench the strength from his limbs and invite fatigue into his muscles. Even so, his grasp fails to falter, allowing him to wrench the blue-iron forged Katana clear of the ground and level it before himself. For a moment, the Revenant takes in the sights and sounds of the battlefield, doing his most to take in what pertinent information he can in regards to the oncoming onslaught- as though it might reveal to him the source of the unnatural malaise that's possessed him. And then the world goes white- that second curse shrouding his vision as absolutely as a blizzard, reducing his surroundings to the crash of steel, the crunch of snow, and the brittle crackle of ice exploding in his vicinity. "Enfer." The clatter of the conflict draws nearer from the front, and yet, it's not that which arrests the Kensai's attention. Rather, it's the overwhelming odious aura which erupts into existance behind him- a sensation of palpable darkness that is all too familiar for the once-tiefling, and which even now makes his empathic nature roil in revolt. Intuition and skill take hold in that moment, coaxing the Kensai into motion even before the Devil's begun to move- and yet, his movements feel all wrong. His fingers seem as though they want to fumble, his whole body seems to resist his motions as shifts his grip upon that Katana. Even as he manages to reverse his grip upon it, to try and bring that weapon thrusting behind himself, he feels the creatures claws tear through the leather of his coat, and begin to struggle and strain for purchase against the Mithril Mesh and Preklek plating beneath. And before himself- before himself, he -feels- that singular murderous intent fast approaching and aimed at him. "Maudite." The frost devil does, in fact, manage to sheer through the metal beneath the revenants trenchcoat, it's claws digging vicious lacerations into the revenants flesh.... and earning itself a priority ticket into the abrupt vaporization of it's digits as the Kensai once more surges with electrical energy. Something -purer- that what was invoked before, something which ravenously consumes not only the frost devil's grip, but also the section it had grasped at, reducing them to mere sparks. It doesn't particularily get the time to question or contemplate this development either, as the revenants clumsy stab abruptly becomes too fast to see, erupting into a sheer staccato of blows which reduce it's torso to a perforated mess. As it currently stands, Kasyr is currently acting at a a speed that's nigh literally lightning quick, something which allows him the means of dropping into a crouching position and promptly hurtling forward in a tackle -towards- his aggressor (that mounted deathknight, oops) before any sort of reaction can be made towards his sudden change of position. The result is altogether messy, as it causes the Revenant to fall beneath the intended -skewering- (or anything else that likely would have been aimed) at his position...and instead brings the full brunt of his momentum into the body of the deathknights horse....sword first. Really, the impacts jarring, as hundreds of pounds of vampire, Preklek plating, et cetera -slam- into it with enough force as to break apart the creatures internal organs and skeletal structure...and incidentally fracture and bend the revenants borrowed blade. The end result is a mess of Mare, moron and Deathknight coming to a skidding crash on the ground, with the deathknight being trapped on the bottom. "Espece..de Salope."
"Apparently not." His hands are empty of all but that gem which, while sharp at the edges, won't serve him well enough for the work he has in mind. Serrure makes a mental note to arm himself with a knife next time he goes running into a battle - he left his usual one at home, scatterbrained thing he is. Terra's dagger is accepted with the ghost of a smile and what might have been a 'thank you', but it's somewhat difficult to hear the quiet man up close, where he does not feel forced to shout. What Terra -will- hear is his explanation and answer to her question: what did he find? "A weapon." There it is, spread out behind him inelegantly on the ground, the massive form of the armoured chimera, all its faces wrought in expressions of abject horror. It is not quite as awe or terror-inspiring as when active, but should he get it working...well, who better to put that thing to use for Frostmaw than another necromancer? Serrure, focused intently on his work, is quick to get near the thing again, holding the fluorite gem close against his chest for now as he raises the knife high in his other hand. In a swift motion, he drives the blade down and into the beast's mottled flesh, forcing it hilt-deep until he feels the tip of the knife knock against a bone. "Perfect." That said, he begins the gruesome act of carving runes into the downed chimera - there is no time to cover the entire body but runes cannot be rushed, so Serrure will go only for its joints, drawing out those esoteric markings as quickly and correctly as he can. It's more than skin-deep work, for they are also being etched onto the creature's very bones, ensuring the man will, potentially, have optimum control over it. The runes speak of chains, of tethers that will leash it to the necromancer, force it to obey his commands: they bind and control, simple as that. As a final touch, he'll bring up the fluorite and breathe into it a taste of his own magic, which he hopes will counteract any remaining directives the previous owners of the chimera might have placed within it. Once that's done, all Serrure has to do is ram the gem back into the chimera's forehead, watch it growl and snarl and spasm back to its feet, and tell the unholy beast in a strangely calm voice, "Kill them."
Dogma :: The ice trolls didn’t care that the orcs where rallying before them. Their sole job was very easy and straight forward, Shock troops, nothing more nothing less. They continue to swing, tear, rip and eat at the orcs.Off the far right a death knight pulled his mare around rushing his stead towards the orcs battalion even as the dragon launched itself into the sky. No time to worry about that as it was. Raising its right hand into the sky the death knight would allow the power of the dark gods to rip his body to shreds. In a sudden plume of a fine blood mist , the death knight and mare no longer existed, but the effects where almost instantly able to be seen. The trolls movements became faster. Their skins toughened against the axes and blades that bit into the flesh as they continued to wade deeper and deeper into the mass of orcs. Now the Ice devils sensed a new presence. One that was distracted busy with some kind of corpse. Serrure! That was the newest victim, The only warning the man would receive would be several sudden plumes of snow erupting around the man as the temp dropped even lower. The largest ice devil would reached across its chest suddenly bringing its whip into play as it attempted to lash the necromancer across his back. Almost in the exact moment as the man said *kill them* the ice devils would follow his words and attempt to kill the necromancer. Heading back towards the blinded vampire the death knight under him would be a groaning mess before the figure’s burning red eyes would open.” Vampire scum” And just like the other one the death knight was sacrificing itself to empower its troops. The sudden burst of power surged through the trolls, giants , ice devils and a few of the humans around them. As soon as the massive black dragon made its self know the anti mages would burst into motion rushing across the area as they started to lay the foundation’s of the trap. Sigils would be placed, nets readied and weapon’s cocked. Arrows soared upwards towards the black dragon as if trying to bait him into come closer. Sadly this entire frontward assault was the largest distraction anyone would ever remember. To the far left of the field , hiding amongst a tree line was a full regiment of exiled frost giants. Behind them was multiple massive mammoths. The giants had laid in wait for the entire time until the battle was fully joined before they unleashed the mammoths towards the side of the walls. Hoping for a breach in the defenses. The first two animals slammed into wall, a few fractures forming quickly . The next two slammed into the wall, a massive rumbling rocking through the walls as they started to give. Then the next four slammed into the wall caving it into the courtyard. Now the giants released the starving winter wolves. Letting the animals pour into the breech.
Tristram was ready to clean house. The enemy's aerial forces were all but obliterated. He would be the uncontested king of the skies here. He was certain he could practically take on the entire army by himself. He'd started -- beginning with some of the trolls who were decimating his orc brothers, when he was presented with a sudden counter attack -- and a well-planned one at that. He ignored the men scurrying about the battle field in favor of turning his attention to the archers firing at him from below. He rolled to his side to deflect the majority of those arrows, which couldn't puncture his thick scales, or the spikes (one of which Terra had probably taken refuge behind as the dragon spun). He flapped his wings to gain speed before tucking them in, dipping down from the sky to level a volley of acidic fire at those offending archers, and maybe catching one or two of those scurrying bystanders in the process. His attention quickly shifted to the frost giants, and the mammoths implemented as makeshift battering rams.
Serrure's order was probably quite a bit more confident than it should have been. The chimera's initial response to him is to grow threateningly, but he barely hears it at all as that whip lashes across his back, apparently startling them both, and suddenly the only thing Serrure can see is sparks; ice-white flickers that obscure his vision with a grainy effect as the pain lances in leaps and bounds throughout his body. He stumbles, might have fallen, but then the chimera lunges, grabbing the man by the arm and flinging him, quite against his will, up into the air. His stomach doing flips, head and back screaming, he struggles and flails and somehow manages to land on the beast's back, gloved fingers scrabbling at armour fused with flesh as he tries to hold on. Meanwhile, his chimera, having lost sight of the necromancer, turns its focus to the more pressing matter of the ice devils - it rushes forward with an ear-shattering roar to send knives of dread through nearby enemy ranks, but the devils only flicker out of its path, and the chimera is unable to sink its teeth into any of them. Rather than face down such an untouchable enemy, and clearly disorientated -- perhaps its 'mind' is still in disorder -- it keeps running instead, unwittingly carrying Serrure away from the ambush. The ice devils continue to follow but there's little they can do to stop the rampaging abomination, which is racing full-tilt across the snowfield - many of them soon fall back to seek out weaker prey that cannot escape on such swift feet. Serrure, holding on and blinking the stars out of his eyes, manages to find his pocket amongst all the furs and withdraw from it his wand, which he clamps firmly between his teeth. He rips off a glove -- it's lost to the wind and snatched up by one of the creatures still following him -- and puts the bare, scarred flesh of his hand against the chimera's body, pushing through his pain -willing- it to turn. And turn the chimera does, the runes belatedly coming into effect. Great paws slide across the compacted snow as it skids, whips about with Serrure hanging on tight, and launches itself at one of the ice devils, catching it off-guard. The two collide in an explosion of icicles and flashing, jagged teeth, the chimera crunching into the wraithling's body and crushing its core to dust. Both it and Serrure are blasted by the ensuing whirlwind of bitter, bitter cold, and the necromancer urges the beast away with a kick to its flank and, "Go!" His back is still aching and he can feel the chill worming its way through his body, but his best bet for now is to keep running, his steed banking around towards the Academy.
Kasyr 's drawing his sword clear of the mare even before he's able to properly formulate a retort to the Deathknight- but it's still not fast enough to do anything about the bloody mess the giant reduces himself to, other than to regain his balance as the crumped mare settles in the spot formerly occupied by the giant-turned-fine-red-mist. Off to his side, something solidifies into existance, if only find itself subject to the thwips and thunks of a number of arrows, dying before it's even properly taken a few steps. It's only as an afterthought that the Kensai remembers to draw his trenchcoat up around himself, and cover his face with his sleeves, hence shielding himself from the ensuing burst of icy shrapnel as the Frosty Fiend explodes. And then the Revenant's moving forward, striding forward into the confusion of sifting bodies, stumbling over corpses, and pushing past friendly troops that are moving to reinforce the acadamy, that are holding the rear..and even those who are as of yet still trying to push into the thick of things. Somewhere, in the midst of this confusion, he can remember shouting, "Get my swords." even as the Kensai's steps bring him into the heart of chaos. All at once, the world is fury and madness, a gnawing & infectious darkness that is both foreign and familiar. That rage exists within this battlefield, and yet also resonates from elsewhere, slowly washing over his consciousness. He can -feel- his reason slipping, his bloodlust rising, and something bleaking stirring within his gut. From ahead, a sickening squelch of flesh and crunch of metal resonates through the air, accompanied by a sense of familiarity flickering out within the spectrum of his empathy - - and then he steps forward and past another body. It's here that he finds it, the world ahead of him no longer clotted with any sort of emotional resonance other than abject rage and hatred- the likes of which he finds himself in the midst of. And it's here that the Kensai finally draws up the bent blade he'd donned, heaving it in an upwards arc. As a swing, it's far too shallow to risk harming anything in and of itself...save for two things which accompany that motion. One is the brilliant flame which dances up along the edge of the weapon, coaxing it to hiss and crackle- whilst the second is the altogether eerie distortion in the air which forms in it's wake, as the air is condensed into a solid mass. It's with these two effects working in tandem that the unforunate individuals before the Revenant are suddenly faced with a cutting 'blade' of super heated air, launched forward in a mirror image of the Kensai's attack. Given the kensai had taken note of the trolls, it's fully meant to carve into even their flesh and ignite them, given he's more than familiar with their regenerate tendancies. It's in this manner that the Kensai leads his tentative dance on the frontlines, relying on the sounds of the battle field, the rush of air, the scent of blood, and even the concentration of empathic energy to provide him any indication of where to move, or who to strike.
Dogma :: As the revenant destroyed two of the trolls in one swing of his super heated *blade* A single death knight stalked onto the area. A slight snarl was hidden under his helmeted visage. The death knight started to weave his dark curse, the vampire was a powerful opponent. And what better way to turn an enemy into a mutual weapon of destruction. The death knight reached out * Absorbing * The life energies of three exiles, one Ice devil A half dozen humans and one lone crow. With the sudden intake of energy the death knight warped the powers into a dark curse. The curse of *Fury*. If the curse landed it would make the kensai unable to pick between friend or foe. More and more trolls would cut a bloody swath through the orcs. more and more getting cut, bashed and shattered. Meanwhile dealing with the black dragon the anti mages would give a curse as the dragon seemed to turn away. They’d quick rig up the anti magic nets onto bows. Taking careful aim as they launched high in the air letting the arrows split open to cover the area, trying to trap the dragon under the anti magic barrier it created. The wolves that had broken through the breech in the wall would scale the back wall, Tearing into the heels , neck and arms of the archers mounted on the wall. At long last of the ice troll’s ( fighting the orcs) Would be defeated but the orcs would still need to deal with the ice devils *Blinking * around the area grabbing orcs between two of them, instantly freezing the flesh of the arms.
Kasyr might be powerful, enough so to be able to resist or at least minimize the effects of some of the curses placed upon him- but there's little he can do to hold back the influx of murderous rage which encompasses him, not when he's already nearly awash in bloodlust. Really, the only thing he manages to do before the last of his higher reasoning is consumed by that wanton desire to spill blood and -maim-, is to launch himself further into the fray. To keep moving forward, in an effort to gain and maintain distance between himself and the others. And then, he simply allows that reckless abandon to consume him, as that dark intent which habitually lies coiled at the bottom of his stomach begins to writh to the surface. Electricity begins to crackle about the Kensai, his body nigh luminescent from the crackles of lightning peeling away from his body, and streaming in the wake of his blade. With no further need to restrain himself, more and more patches of the Revenants body begin to ionize- converted into electrical energy as a sacrifice, so that the Kensai might continue to tap into that pure source of electrical energy. Every sword strike rends through flesh, and even the wake of those blinding strokes leave casualties, and smouldering wounds- collateral damage ripping outwards from his position due to the arcing electricity.
Tristram growled at the archers and their trifling arrows, tried to encompass the lot of them in a long plume of fire that would corrode the very flesh from their bones. He dipped down past a snowbank, to regroup, rebuild some momentum and firepower (as well as unceremoniously dump Terra out of immediate harm's way) before plunging back into the heat of battle. He was after those ice devils, now, having a bead on them from above, intent on beating them back, defending his brother in arms and Frostmawian allies -- hey Kas -- and he bellowed another streak of acidic fire at a row of teleporting ice devils, blinking in and out of the immediate vicinity. Suddenly, he was weighted, pulled down by netting of some kind. It felt unnatural. The connection he had to his human form felt suddenly very far away, as though the illusion that held together that human shape had been severed. He shrieked, enraged and bit savagely at those nets as he was pulled downward. But he wasn't going down without a fight. That fire was manufactured in his gut -- a chemical reaction, void of any magic. But it took long minutes to build enough of it after exhausting his reserves.
Serrure and the chimera are moving fast, its large paws acclimatised to the snow, allowing it to spread its weight without sinking and losing precious momentum. Ragged claws and teeth rip into any enemy they come across, mostly ice devils that come blinking across the battlefield, but at one point they nearly run headlong into an exiled giant who is not at all happy to see that one of his beasts has been turned against his armies. He comes at them with a club and some guts, swinging the former while bellowing in challenge - Serrure leans out from around the chimera's grisly trio of heads to fire off a jet of magic, which strikes the giant in the foot and begins to corrode his flesh at a frightening pace. It's almost as if the process of decomposition has been sped up a thousandfold, skin turning weak and mushy, sloughing off the bone in wet lumps; an excruciating experience, to be certain, as the giant roars and, swinging wildly at them, attempts to send them flying. But the chimera is faster, more manoeuvrable on the icy ground, slipping under the arc of the club and leaping. The weight of its horrific body is enough to knock the giant off his feet, and it's soon after he falls that the chimera rips out his throat. Serrure urges it to run again, not wanting to remain in one place for long. A whistling wind starts up around them as they continue on their course for the threatened Academy - the shadow of the black dragon in flight passes over the pair, stirring up snowflakes and ice dust even from such a height, and Serrure lifts a hand to shield his eyes against the debris. He glances up at his comrade-- and then beyond, for he's glimpsed the vague outlines of nets that catch on the dragon's wings. Tristram! Like those nets, the word is caught on his tongue; a shout that does not make it, held back by his anxiety. What can Serrure do but watch? Well, his bare hand is picking up the ghosts of sensation amidst the miasma, and then...an area where nothing is felt at all. It is a black hole in the middle of his odd focus, an abyss where magic cannot reach, and Serrure is reluctant to stare into it for long lest it swallow him up. And then there's the blood. He becomes aware of it when he looks away from Tristram - the pools of cooling liquid in the snow they pass are...wiggling, and wriggling, and creeping in all the wrong directions in a decidedly unsettling manner. It sends shivers through even the necromancer, who by nature is not disturbed by things that are, well, weird. The blood seems to ooze over the bodies of those it once inhabited, and it quickly picks up pace, becoming a veritable vortex of viscera and scarlet that draws itself inward to the core of the battlefield where, if he squints, Serrure can just make out a glimmer of blinding light. Unlike the blood, he does not head towards it - reluctant as he is, he's headed for that patch of nothingness that screams the presence of anti-mages. What he hopes to do to them once he gets there is...questionable.
Dogma :: The battle out front the gates had been lost. The rampaging vampire was far to strong...Until the vampire realized in his blood lust that he had ventured into the original trap set for the dragon. Multiple anti mages had been bubbled into a pile of chemical goo. When the magic wielding vampire entered the area the sigils would activate in a sealing circle. The anti mages would take the small victory that the could gather as more and more nets where thrown to pin the rampaging vampire. The few giants still loyal to the god of war started to chant, allowing the divine magics to flow through the binding circle in a direct counter to the vampire’s undead aura. They’d let the sapping effects start to effect the man. As the army ranks closed around as if this had been the plan from the very start. The capture of the king of frostmaw! The academies main defense had fallen as now the exiles took control of the walls. Pulling bows and arrows and launching volley after volley or pin point shots, If any one could see over the battlement it would be to a gruesome scene of the wolves feasting on the remains and sometimes the still screaming archers. Shooting back over to the orcs! The last troll had fallen . Then last Ice devil had retreated....Or so the world would think. As Sirroc turned to rally his troops the orcs would be granted a terrible sight. The ancient Frost Devil appeared in his blinking fashion right behind the orc. A single powerful hand grabbing the orc’s shoulder and just like that, they blinked out of exitance. The Ice devil’s knew what was coming. They could feel the despair rising the negative emotions of the battle field as they started gorge themselves. The ones around kas would be simply filled to bursting! The ancient Frost Devil appeared on the battlements. In clear sight of the entirety of the field of battle. Almost as if mocking the massive black dragon , tristram, The devil would scream its soul chilling cry as its prize , the orc warchief, was seen being held between two exiles. A single death knight clad in the wonderfully immaculate black armor finally showed himself. Seemingly lazy about the entire ordeal. “ Oh dragon of the orcs... Make a wish?” And with the little joke the giants would grip the orc’s legs. A sudden loud ripping noise could be heard clear across the battle field as the giants exerted their terrible strength upon the warchief. The two halves of the body where thrown over the edge of the battlements. slapping wetly against the already blood soaked snow. The death knight would look across the field.” Flee with your lives worms.”
Tristram || Despair seemed to permeate the very atmosphere of the battlefield. The orcs had stopped their onslaught as their leader disappeared. It took a moment for them to locate him again. By then, it was too late. But then a tricky thing happened. Despair gave way to rage -- utter and consuming rage, a rage that swore revenge at any cost. As though they hadn't just battled for their very lives, the orcs charged forward, overrunning those ice devils, swarming them. Tristram had been powerless until his clawed feet found purchase in the snow. Horrified, he watched the Orc Chieftain's death, heard the taunt. It inspired in him the same rage that it did in his brethren. The anti-mages had little effect on his chemical attack. He doused the immediate area in a long wall of fire, a fire that corroded and consumed anything within its path -- including the nets and the men holding them. Once free, he took to the air, circling above the orcs, helping to pick off remaining ice devils, though he left the ancient to his brethren, only wounding it, incapacitating it without killing it -- leaving the orcs the honor of avenging their fallen leader. And avenge they did. They surged forward as one unit, intent on rendering that awful creature limb from limb, bone from bone -- a mark of Gualonian pride and honor in the face of such a devastating loss.
Kasyr comes to a lurching halt as the Sigils he's found himself in the midst of flare alive, the arcane leeching effect activating not a moment thereafter. The effect is devastating, wounds which were holding themselves together by some combination of willpower, dark energy, and the Kensai's unnatural nature as a vampire all starting to unravel in unison. And everywhere, the blood still pooled towards the Revenant, beckoned onwards by an exertion of the monumental energies which lurked within the undead aberrations soul. Somewhere within the bleak rage that's encompassed his psyche, some flicker of lucidity remains- something that rages at him to take control and move, to -act-. It's a desire beyond simply gnashing and tearing; instead being the desire to take control, to take action even though his limbs refuse to respond, even as his body begins to sag towards the ground. It's a piercing scream inside his soul that manages to maintain it's voice, even as the weight of the nets pull him lower, and flesh tears out beneath the weight of arrows. Somewhere in the midst of the revenants ravenous rampage, that stubbornness remains, "Je m'en fous.." All at once, the light around his body begins to burn brighter, his flesh fading beneath a cascade of bright light...which quickly begins to ripple and blcken. "Va te faire enculer." It's about this point the sigils begin to sizzle, distort and -burst-, as far more energy than was ever intended to be absorbed by them, and of an altogether caustic and unhallowed nature begins to pour into them all at once, and corrupting that energy which already exists within them.
From the east, further and deeper into the other battlefield where the armies of Frostmaw and Exiles clash, comes a howl. High, primal, and glacial, the sound whistles across the land. It is too far off to say for certain, but it seems to be drawing nearer, accompanied by a distant glow, akin to a sunset--if sunsets were of frosted hues. The ruins themselves seem to shudder in response, and their inhabitant spirits raise their voices in a cacophony of screams, wails, roars, and shrieks.
Serrure veers abruptly from his course when Tristram's chemical fire sets the anti-mage's circle ablaze, and the shining light he spotted earlier is seen to move from within the barrier of the sigils. Any relief he might have felt seeing the governor freed is washed away in a tide of horror when, all of a sudden, he is struck side-on by a -literal- tide, this of blood, gurling and foaming, rushing with reckless abandon toward the light-- Kasyr, of course, although Serrure has yet to recognise that it is the revenant. He coughs, trying to spit the liquid out of his mouth, but it's already gone - everything that hit him peels away along with the rest of the blood on the battlefield to join the macabre bubble of scarlet which has begun building around Kasyr, obscuring him from view. It forms a dome about him, high and wide, and Serrure watches wide-eyed over his shoulder as the thing darkens, a foul blackness bleeding through it from the inside out. After that he looks away, but he can still hear the sharp crackle of electricity as the dome begins to spark and hiss. He and the chimera move toward the Academy proper, now.
Raising is not his specialty. The token trait of necromancers, it's an art he personally has had trouble with ever since he began learning the dark craft...but he is capable of it, although it requires more effort on his part than it should for such a skilled necromancer. Skidding to a halt, the chimera pauses for long enough to allow Serrure to slide off its back - he lands with a wince, the insidious cold poison of the ice devil's whip coursing through his veins, burning like fire. With his focus on the dead around him he has no time to deal with anything nearby, or nothing that still happens to be alive, at least. This is why the chimera hangs around, for it swipes out and devours whatever seeks to attack the man. Serrure, meanwhile, is giving life back to some of the dead archers, those that either fell or were thrown from the battlements and have yet to be eaten by wolves. "Your friends need help," Serrure tells them, pointing to the walls before avoiding an arrow fired from them by ducking behind one of his recently-raised undead. His words seem to spur the archers into action and they set about returning fire, while others move to protect them from anything still on the ground. Serrure nudges a particularly devastatingly injured one who has yet to stand - this man, like Sirroc, has been torn clean in two, but it seems as if he might be able to fix himself up temporarily.
Serrure said, "Pull yourself together, man."
Dogma :: The death knights still on the field of battle all seem to laugh and grin. You gotta love it when a plan comes together so perfectly. Then again who's to say this wasn't all some work of the god of insanity and biscuits? After the sudden bathing in fire the battlements would be cleared of the slower giants. The elder devil once more blinking away its haunting soul wrenching scream still in a mocking nature as the death knights where no where to be found. The orcs in all their rage fought wonderfully,, If at a bit of a disadvantage since the enemy still held the high ground and the easily defended ground. And through it all not even the exiles on troops would notice the death knights vanishing. The anti-mages would be awash in the crippling pain of a god scorned. How dare they ask for his power after turning to such a thuggish and dishonorable path. Then again it was hard to tell with the god of war. The important facts to note are the death knights have vanished from the field. Most of the current crop of Ice devils had been killed in the sudden rage of the orcs, sadly the elder had escaped.
Tristram regrouped when the battle seemed to lull, with very few pockets of fighting remaining, save for closer to the Academy. But even those within the breached walls seemed to be pushing back. The dragon alighted on the ground again and released an echoing bellow to express the waning rage still coursing through him, fueled by adrenaline, the heat of battle. A sparking, sparkling ball of blood captured his attention -- how could it not? He turned to face it, weary, but ready to battle anew, if necessary. The orcs, without their leader, succumbed to a chaotic structure -- some chasing after the ancient ice devil, hellbent on revenge, others defaulting to Tristram's side for leadership, and still others trying to form some semblance of ranks in the dying light of battle. It appeared as though a victory had been won at a steep, steep cost … and exactly what kind of victory it was remained to be seen. Tristram eased closer to the scene of the latest action, stepping into one of those splintered sigils as he investigated the strange phenomenon.
Kasyr ||For a few long moments, there's nothing but the crackle of electricity and the sickly sound of boiling blood emanating from the macabre monstrosity resting within the midst of the field- a pungent stench of iron and ozone wafting outwards from the putrid mass. Then it begins to quiver, one portion of it beginning to distort and rupture outwards. Again this repeats itself, adjacent, and both with increased fervour and violence, a patch several feet across rippling in protest at the force being exerted upon it. Within moments, the dome begins to pull itself together, the distortions seeming to repair itself- until a massive shape slams against the interior. The contours of the bubble ripple, bend..and then are torn asunder by the massive clawed limb which emerges from it's sanguine 'shell'. Mere moments thereafter, it's twin bursts free, slamming into the ground adjacent the first- and more than powerful enough to begin pulling the rest of the creatures bulky twenty-five foot long frame clear of it's 'surroundings. What's revealed is altogether -different-, a bulky almost feline form, sleek and muscular- and yet with patches of irregular scaling, and barbed spines which run along it's upper arm and back, especially around it's shoulders. It's face too, shares that oddly reptilian element, being oddly elongated, and Ophidian eyes. Behind it, a scaled tail lashes angrily at the ground, stirring up the occasional spark whenever it impacts. The creature shuffles for a moment, grinding it's paws against the ground as it looks for any trace of what antagonized it before, a decidely hungry look painting it's mien. This hesitation doesn't seem likely to last long, however, as even those allied troops seem to be holding it's attention, now.
Serrure, after helping the archer to his feet, turns his gaze back to the main area of activity that remains, the strange dome in the centre of those sigils. In that moment, time appears to slow down before his eyes and the edges of his vision begin to blur dizzyingly - perhaps it's the poison affecting him, but he can't be sure. Is that--? An owlish blink follows the initial quivering of the crackling sphere before every inch of Serrure's exposed skin is hit with a feeling of utter dread, a fear that freezes him in place. It's his realisation that Tristram is there, standing so close by the thing, that causes everything to rush back into focus, and Serrure whips around while calling for the chimera. Catching hold of it and swinging onto its back, he urges it faster-- faster, until the world is whistling by and he can barely make anything out, except what's ahead of him. "Tristram!" Somehow, he finds it in himself to shout, the terror ripping at his soul and demanding he run in the opposite direction, away from what's building behind the veil of blood and electricity. But even the chimera can't outrun this, he knows that. The only possible escape is to fly. So perhaps that is why he goes to Tristram, perhaps it is for another reason-- at any rate, Serrure makes a daring leap from the chimera to land on the black dragon, dragging himself up his scales to the centre of his back, where he clings to one of his spines. He doesn't need to speak the words this time, it will be felt through the connection established by his bare hand against those scales: the need to run, to fly, to get as far away from the dome as possible, to -survive-. And then, of course, then it shatters...
The howl comes again, certainly closer now and swiftly approaching. That frosted glimpse of a distant sunset is now a raging azure inferno, as bright, cold, fierce, and dreadful as a comet descending to impact. Strangely, the spirits of the Ruins have gone deathly quiet, with hardly a flurry announcing their presence when seconds prior their myriad voices had been lifted in wild, terrified song.
Tristram was well-prepared to eat the thing that emerged from that blood egg. It seemed the most viable option. First, maybe he'd cook it some. He summoned some fire, feeling those chemicals roil in his gut before lifting to his throat. He craned his serpentine neck backward, and then suddenly that little human was on him like some kind of professional dragon rider. Tristram had half a mind to knock him off again, but that wasn't very fitting as a diplomatic representative of his city. He twitched his tail in restless irritation, but a touch seemed to penetrate to his core. He paused in his initial desire to try and take out the strange creature that had clearly devoured another ally of his, Kasyr. A moment later, a howl echoed across the battlefield. The dragon lifted his head, scenting the air, testing it for threat. But it was the preternatural silence that found him lifting into the air, carrying himself, Serrure (and probably Terra as well, since he wouldn't leave her behind) higher above the battlefield, just as the setting sun flared a brilliant blue. The orcs, recognizing Tristram's pending departure (and the lack of any more opponents to fight), began to leave the battlefield after him, though those that had gone after the ancient were still missing, as well as a handful who remained to try and fight the strange beast they'd never seen before, and counted as an enemy without any direction from their now-deceased Orc Chieftain.
Kasyr ||~THUNK~. Whether it be by some sheer act of confidence, bravery, or just mortal terror resulting in an accident- an arrow richochets off one of flesh of the Black Beast, coaxing it's attention towards those remaining exiles which had sought high ground upon the academys walls. Almost drunkenly, the creatures body sags towards the ground, twisting in the direction of it's aggressor- and ultimately identifying it as one of the irritants from before. And then it emits a dreadful screams;a terrible, pronounced din, the likes of which seems to run in unison to the otherworldly howl which holds dominion over the ruins. Then all at once, it's surging forward- bursting forward with nightmarish speed, leaving a trail of liquid darkness and sparks in it's wake. Somewhere along the lines, a few orcs charge at it- and yet it never pauses, instead choosing to crash through them like a biological battering ram. It does not slow, even when it approaches the wall, instead lunging forward to pounce at the unforunate exile to arouse it's ire- it's maw parted to encompass the poor bastard whole. Om. Nom. Nom.
A streak of azure tears through the area, as preternaturally silent as the precursor howl had been loud, charging straight for the scaled beast with utter disregard for any obstacle in its path. What living material is unfortunate enough to be caught in the light's wake is left covered in frostbitten claw marks, as if they'd been shoved through a frozen whirlwind. Fueled by battlefield fury and immeasurable rage, the bundle of frigid light collides with the beast in an eruption of frost and sparks. For the briefest of moments, the form within the azure light is visible as some form of enormous, fox-like beast, fur as black as ink, a viper's nest worth of tails, with the fangs and forked tongue to rival mythological cobras. The view is no more than a flicker, a blur, as the unnaturally swift creature's fangs bury into the neck of the other before slender legs brace against the barricade walls and shove off. Coming and going like a lightning strike, the vulpine and feline beast alike are gone, leaving only a trail of destruction, roiling blood, and glittering frost in their wake that leads into the distant, ancient tundras beyond the ruins.
'Continued in Caliginous Cat vs Ophidian Fox.