RP:Eternal Waltz with the Ruins King
Frost Chilled Basement
As you find yourself in the old chilled basement, the light seems to fade and only darkness remains. The slight light that does flow through sparkles strangley within the ice over the room, and the chilled air is accompanied by the steam the flows from each of your breaths. With one heavy breath, the steam before you forms into a half decayed face, the eyes sunken in, and a look of terror and sadness spread of its features. The strange, and eerie formation fades just as quickly as it was made, and among the icey floor, you can hear small footsteps, but see nothing making them. The only path from this room is to the west.
Zekchasz is hunting. Beyond the old gate, the frozen wasteland is full of ghosts and an almost oppressive quiet broken only by the whistling wind, phantom's cries, and the underlying hum of earthsong; a melody that seems to follow her guardian everywhere, these days. She hears it as he does, feeling it through the hard stone beneath her clawed feet, but unlike Kirien she has yet to master the art of dancing with it. In due time, certainly... For now, though, Chasz' focus is on the deep snow and the tiny tunnels winding through it, where voles scurry and sleep. Northern ghosts can be heard in the distance, moaning and hissing. Their malignant presence flutters across the snowfields, never straying too close to her, as if afraid, though they continue to wail their damning songs in echoing voices that sting with their contempt. Chasz knows why they won't come near. Kirien told her about that time before she hatched, when he and her father figure met the spirits head-on and drove them back. Now, they're nervous around him. It makes Chasz more brash than usual - she snaps at their trailing forms, only glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, while Kirien flows through the practiced motions of a 'dance' that she's sure would cripple a mountain were he speaking the words to go with it. Then movement catches her attentions; the soft pitter-patter of tiny claws scrabbling across the snow. She spies a vole pop up close by and her golden eyes light up - lumbering forward, Chasz leaps at the tiny creature, misses, and breaks off in a run after her frantically fleeing prey, tearing across the darkened snow under the looming shadow of a broken tower. Claws strike bare stone as she races through the faded skeleton of an old house and down a set of steps, and finds herself slipping suddenly on the icy surface. She tumbles down into dark, heavy silence, not yet realising that she has strayed too far from Kirien's side and has become a target. And she's fallen into one of the most haunted ruins, too...
Haunted is an understatement. For what Chasz has found herself sliding into is, in essence, a ghoulish gathering. A cursory glance at the ice-coated basement might reveal nothing aside from stray wisps of fog and frost to the typical eye, however closer examination, patience, and perhaps an attunement to the flucuations of the ethereal might reveal the true state of occupancy here. Seven entities in total are present: three being no more than the fragments of restless souls, two hardly visible as anything more than the ragged outlines of warriors in the mist, a sixth viewable through peripheral vision--a macabre being seemingly woven entirely of ice and blood, a decimated corpse long since dead and left to the frozen wastes where not even rot will free him from unlife. The seventh is veiled behind a shimmering curtain of frigid shadow, slunk low in the back of the basement and yet exuding an aura of considerable power with even the slightest of movements. An Ice Devil. One of the truest forms of terror in Frostmaw's ruins, the present rulers of the ancient battlefield. An eighth presence might be felt, for those attuned to faint remnants of magic--as such, they'd detect shards of an icy essence, a carefully neutral observer--but no visible being.
Chasz's eyes take a long couple of moments to adjust to the dim interior of the basement. Biting back a whimper, she picks herself up off the ground, spared only from multiple gashes and cuts due to her hardy scales, and huffs a chilly breath. It mists into the air while her gaze darts about the floor in search of the little vole she was chasing, determined not to let it escape her. She finds it frozen solid nearby, amidst a wispy cloak of fog that glitters dully with tiny ice crystals; and only then does the young grey come to notice that there is much more to pay attention to down here than voles and playful hunting games. A deep sense of foreboding ripples through the hatchling and she freezes in place, almost as if the same ice that killed the vole has begun to creep throughout her body, too. Her sharp vision begins to pick out the way the mist moves unnaturally, forming the vague outline of similarly ethereal beings to those that stalk the wasteland above but never come close enough for her to truly see. Chasz breathes out a shaky, "Mother," then flinches as though bitten and spins, rushing to the stairs, wailing again, louder. Slathered so thick that the stone can only just be seen beneath, the ice on the steps is slick and the grey slips, crying out in panic. She spins abruptly to put the stairs to her back, hissing and growling in an attempt to frighten that which frightens her, her defiance shaky as its foundations crack and fear spreads. Up on the surface, Kirien pauses in his dance, blinks back the shroud of his near-meditative state, and murmurs aloud, "Chasz...?"
Silence of the purest, most unnatural sort descends upon the room, with only the dragon's scrabbling claws and squalls of fright puncturing the veil of noiselessness. Yet even those sounds seem muffled beneath the ethereal gazes locked upon the Grey. The trio of lesser spirits, being little more than latent emotion, respond minimally by giving off flares of dirty gray light from their wisp-like forms while emitting a low, grating hum. Warriors still even in death, the duo are quick to reach ghostly hands toward the hilts of intangible weapons, instantaneously taking up a smoking sword and a translucent mace respectively without the necessary action of drawing them from sheaths or holsters. And the creature of crimson ice follows suit hardly a second later, his teeth clattering excitedly within the confines of his skeletal head, scraps of frozen flesh shivering with the motion. Within bony hands he has manifested a broadsword, badly dented, chipped, and rusted, but still gleaming with malicious intent beneath its coating of ancient blood. 'Trespasser....' the forgotten general hisses through a long-lost windpipe as he takes a jittery step forward in Chasz's direction. Only the form hulking beneath cloak of ice and shadow remains stationary, merely staring, eyes a pair of blue flames burning deep within an icy skull of horns, spikes, and wicked angles. Again, those with the right attunement will feel that observer's presence, awareness shifting to that of surprise and frustration, the faintest musical muttering of a swear audible in the dead air.
The pervading, biting chill is more intense than Chasz has ever felt it before. Even with her tough hide to protect her, the atmosphere nips at her limbs; a keen cold to slice through a normally stubborn nerve and pepper that durable body with phantom wounds wrought by the icy dagger of crippling fear. Greys are a haughty, stubborn species well-known for their brutish natures, but Chasz is still only very young, and this secret gathering of malicious creatures is nightmarish enough to shatter even her confidence. Oh, if only she would wake up from this horrible dream! She screams again, bellowing out a rumbling roar that might have been fearsome were it not for the way it trembles as it leaves her throat, wavering, and swiftly smothered by the eerie quiet like a moth lost to abyssal darkness. "Mother! Father!" the hatchling cries in desperation, turning once more to try and clamber up the stairs as the ghosts close in. Drowned out by the frantic scrape of her claws on the ice, a portion of the ceiling births a crack that spreads and ruptures suddenly; and then Kirien arrives on the scene in a cacophonous burst of broken rock and scattered snowflakes. Boots skidding on the snow, he did not even take the time to descend the steps and simply leapt from the top of them to soar into the darkened basement, and bring light into it in the form of a crackling stream of golden sparks. Raw terramantic energy, the essence of the world, wraps in layers round the empath's stone fist which he throws for the nearest spirit before he's even touched down on the ground, effectively barrelling into the thing with enough destructive force to send it flying back against the opposite wall - if his magic even makes proper contact, that is. Truly, Kirien has no idea whether the punch will do any damage or if he will simply phase through the ghostly creature, but he's hoping that, whatever the case, his entrance will be enough to at least startle the beings into pausing.
Trying to brute force an incorporeal being is typically a foolhardy endeavor. Kirien, however, is fortunate enough to not only back his swing with terramantic magic but also to have aimed at the broadsword-toting spirit. More undead than spirit, this lost soul is far more tangible than his companions, and thus susceptible to the terramancer's punch. The scream of glass under strain and the musical tinkle of it breaking prelude the resounding, rattling crash of ice and bone slamming into stone; the swordsman having been sent clear across the room--and through the two warrior phantoms--to strike the distant wall. ..And in fact become partially embedded in the permafrost. Ungainly squirming ensues while he attempts to free himself until, after a moment of frustration, he throws his skull back, bloody jaws gaping wide, to voice a screech. The sound is unearthly, high, keening, and unnaturally perfect in its unwavering pitch, driving deep into the bones of those that hear it, a piercing, physical pain delivered upon the living but with no obvious effect for the remaining formless entities. Save for an heightening of aggression from them as the three wisps flare brighter, dive toward Kirien, and begin whirling around him in a rapid, dizzying dance of light, smoke, and a stomach-churning buzz. Not far behind are the pair of phantoms, eager to begin closing the gap between vampire and dragon, and themselves... yet unable to, as a veritable wall of azure light springs up before them, curved slightly toward Kirien as if there to shield him. Flames slowly begin to lick their way up the wall until the curtain has been entirely engulfed by azure fire--or at least what appears to be fire, for no heat comes from the writhing flames, only a determined and deadly chill. Humming from the wisps increases in volume with the presence of the fiery cold, rapidly rising to the point of inaudible, bit by bit threatening to tear apart ear drums before they're interrupted. "Shut up." The words are cold, even by Frostmaw standards, and delivered with a considerable degree of authority, while still retaining a dulcet lilt. In response, the wisps--and even the undead--fall instantly silent and droop toward the ground to waver uncertainly, as if baffled by the unexpected order. If they had faces, all three would be turned toward the top of the basement's staircase, where Satoshi stands framed in the doorway by azure light. Lit from behind as she is, the kit's expression is lost in shadow, although the aura of irritation she exudes is likely more than palable for Kirien to detect. Coupled with eyes, normally a soft blue dancing with amusement, aglow with amber, and it's plain to see the Lady of Frostmaw is far from a playful mood today. Although her vexation isn't directly at Kirien or Chasz specifically, the dragon's hunting blunder has interrupted careful work on the magus' part. Extremely delicate and dangerous work.
Kirien snorts a triumphant huff of frosty breath when his reckless swing actually makes contact and, indeed, delivers exactly the kind of blow he was hoping to the creature threatening his precious dragon. Of course, the violent entrance also has the unfavourable effect of enraging those beings not half-buried in the permafrost, and the one stuck in it, too, which begins to scream in frustration upon realising his efforts are getting him nowhere. Assaulted by that awful noise, the terramancer's ears pin flat against his head as a most unholy screech erupts from within the ancient swordsman's shattered skull and his stance immediately stiffens in something akin to preparation. His overly sensitive psyche, bombarded by a deluge of painfully reverberating sound and wrathful emotion, is forced to shrink Kirien's world down to nothing more than a chaotic net of pulsing vibration, loud buzzing, and the pungent tang of thousands of years worth of contempt for the living. Still, he yells back in defiance, "I'll eat another of you if you try to hurt her!" This is really only a ruse, meant to intimidate and deter the spirits in the hope an opportunity to escape might open up. "You remember E'et-Nilah? Heresy? You want to suffer that End, too?" he spits to the whirling wisps, caught in the wispy hurricane. Ghostly buzzing and formless demons swirl ever faster around him, until suddenly something seems to change, and a wave of azure fire soothes the agony in Kirien's mind. More than that, a familiar presence makes itself fully known to the empath, who blinks up at the silhouetted figure of his sister on the stairway; a sight he does not truly see but is still thankful for, despite Satoshi's clearly darker mood. Chasz, seeing all the smoke and lights the terramancer cannot, still cowers by the wall, her great steel-tipped tail wrapped protectively round her body, her legs trembling. "Chickadee," Kirien acknowledges the ice magus with another blink, "Apologies."
The amber blaze of Satoshi's eyes soften marginally when flicked in Kirien's direction, a softly murmured, "Lark" following before her gaze hardens anew and is turned on the weave of shadows at the distant wall. "Wetutherag," the word is spat out like a curse, as cold and flinty as Frostmaw metal. In response, the mass of arctic shadows recoil, drawing in on itself, faded strands and ragged tendrils coalescing into a single solid mass, winding around itself and finally settling into the vague shape of a man. That is, if men naturally reached nine feet in height, possessed glossy, almost glass-like skin of a deeper midnight hue than drow, carried a thickset build reminscent of a half-orc, and was overall complimented by short, ivory spikes jutting down the lengths of limbs, spine, chest, and over bald scalp. A draconic tail, ending in a pincer-like fork, writhes in obscene patterns, movements that threaten to enduce nausea on any foolhardy enough to watch. Two spiral horns sprout from the being's forehead, lunging forward before curving upward in cruel angles and ending in needle-sharp points. Ears are almost elven in appearance, being short and pointed, but there is nothing otherwise delicate or slyvan about Wetutherag. Just looking upon of the ice devil feels like a blasphemy, the creature being a properly inferal entity that has haunted the ancient lands since before they were ruins. Where as most ice devils were of a slender build, typically stark white and enshrouded in misted frost, Wetutherag embodies the deadlier, darker breed of snow-black ice. Here stands the King of the Ice Devils, a maker of pacts, a stealer of life, a lover of death. And a thorn in Satoshi's side since he'd interfered with the execution of the ex-general frost giant, Hrathgar. Soundlessly, the wisps and phantoms step aside, becoming almost invisible against the backdrop of ice while the Ruins King and Frostmaw Queen stare down one another. Somewhere in the background of hearing is a low, insistent keening, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once and accompanied by a surge of bloodlust: Asorial, detecting the Devil's presence and oh so eager to taste the essence of another.
Kirien flashed Satoshi a brief but appreciative smile in the moments when her gaze fell upon him. He's in the midst of moving to Chasz's side, extending a hand to comfort the shaken hatchling, when that wretched word is uttered by his sibling and covenmate, and the shadows at the back of the room respond in turn. A writhing, ragged tear in the half-light, blacker than black, the shifting, silent being draws Kirien's focus like a moth to flame - he watches its wispy outline harden into the likeness of obsidian and black ice, possessed of a deadly sheen that cracks where deadly spikes sprout across a barrel chest and smooth, bald head, and a long, forked tail sprouts and sways in maddening patterns behind the hulking beast. Kirien rips his attentions from that particular appendage before it makes him too dizzy, feeling the familiar whisper of malicious energies cloaking the frozen King like a royal robe, loudly proclaiming his status as a very ancient, evil thing to any perceptive enough to take notice of corporeal ghosts. "Wetutherag?" he repeats under his breath in a sort of curious murmur, the tension in his body betraying a mixture of intrigue and wariness. Quickly the terramancer takes the few steps needed to cross the space between himself and Chasz and presses a hand reassuringly to the grey's side, ushering her up the stairs with a murmured, "It's not safe here, love." He follows her up, pushing her where necessary, when her sharp claws scrabble uselessly at the solid ice, as Asorial's eager cry echoes around the basement, there but not there and entirely too familiar. Rubbing absently at his neck, Kirien hangs back behind Satoshi, now, watching her and the devil stare each other down. Total silence has descended again, he notes with a slight furrow of brow. Steeped in this eerie, unnatural quiet, the landscape waits with baited breath; a nervous calm before the approaching storm.
Satoshi, although she says nothing, takes a considerable degree of comfort at Kirien's presence. Although the narcissistic kit is dangerously confident in her abilities, being backed by one of the few she deems family, and thus worthy of her unerring affection, is a solace indescribable by words. Nonetheless, Satoshi's gaze does not waver in the slightest when Kirien moves to usher Chasz away, her eyes locked upon Wetutherag as if she were truly frozen in place, and he as well. Between infernal King and undead Queen, the already frigid temperatures plummet to ungodly levels, degrees that threaten to freeze the blood in veins, chill that makes a single breath that of razors, cold that puts even the ice and earth under strain. Spidering cracks begin to skitter across the walls and ground as the pair of interconnected elements groan as if enduring tremendous pressure. "Tut tut, Wetutherag. Brewing trouble again, I see. Hrathgar wasn't enough of a plaything for you?" Satoshi's tone is alarmingly light and mocking, not at all in synch with the ambient mood, and seems to provoke the Ice Devil purely for that reason. A snarl escapes the creature, sound feral and sickening to hear, and a single step of talon foot is taken closer toward the kit, toward the azure barrier between them. Satoshi shows no outward signs of being perturbed by this, and in fact looks delighted, an impish smirk snaking its way across her face as features take on a more angular appearance, fangs prominent in her expression. There is no end to her desire to wage war with the Ruins King. "Lark, meet Wetutherag, ghoulish lord of all things dead here. Not what I'd call an old friend but... well, a dance is long overdue for us, tu sais?" In reflection of the foxkin's building bloodthirst, her quartet of tails begin to twist and writhe in their own mimicry of the Devil's movements, looking like so many white--and single black--vipers enraged at being awoken.
Kirien 's throat feels tight, as if those unseen fingers of frigid death are closing around his neck again in a bone-white choker to steal away (un)life, the sibilant whisper of northern ghosts teasing his ears with their desires to end him, to force him to wander the wastes eternally as they do. Out of a horizon of blended grey they come in droves, breezing over the snow like an arctic wind; thousands and thousands of spirits of all different shapes and sizes and incorporeal state that leave no trace of their presence and fill the wintry air with a chorus of muted murmurs. In an instant they have surrounded the dark scar in the snow that is the basement and where Wetutherag lurks, providing a phantasmagoric audience of ghostly beings, all anticipating the oncoming confrontation, and all eager to witness the result in person. None of them are touching Kirien, really - none of them pay much attention to him, a man attuned to earth rather than frigid ice, though they give him a strangely wide berth all the same. The terramancer's shortness of breath is more a reaction to the swiftly plummeting temperatures, for he might be accustomed to Frostmaw's chill but this harsh, creeping cold is far deeper than normal. He gasps. It's unneeded. Another nudge and a murmur to Chasz sends the young grey scampering off across the snow, ducking and weaving through throngs of spirits whose focus extends no further than the basement and the two rulers within it - Kirien knows Nameless is nearby and will look after Chasz until all this is over, because he won't leave Satoshi here to face this monster alone. Even if all he does is stand here, he'll stay. It's something he's surprisingly good at. "Wetutherag," the empath repeats with an odd lilt to his voice, tasting the name on his tongue. "A dance, hm? Do you want moi to sing?" The final word of that enquiry contains within it a powerful spark of the same golden magic he used to send the ghoul flying, and the landscape exhales a shudder underfoot, just once.
Another snarl escapes Wetutherag as the swarm of spirits come flooding in to witness the confrontation. King of the Ruins this abyssal creature might be, but the restless dead are far from loyal subjects, when he is far from a loving king. His reign was obtained ages ago through the purest aggression and maintained through the harshest tyranny. Spirits are not prone to uprisings against such diabolic rulers, often too lost in their own misery to realize he has shovelled more upon them. However, they have, in recent times, become aware of Satoshi. Or at least the elemental aura she exudes. This one, while technically in a state of limbo between life and death as a vampire, is one that knows some of their pain, and their descendants' pain at the prolonged sufferings. This one has been seen trying to set things aright, endeavoring to put the unfortunate haunts to rest, sending them along to their long-waiting gods and goddesses. This one has never tried to use their essences to further her own powers, nor tormented them to fuel her pleasure. This one, who feels so very much like the Snow Maiden of old, their once protector and guardian, is one they can acknowledge as a queen, should she best their cruel tyrant. Satoshi, however, has no knowledge of the spirits' wants and hopes, she knows only that their presence here now is at least not malevolent--yet. And that with the Ice Devil's approach and the ancient ghosts' arrivals, the six beings originally intending to do Chasz harm have since backed off, slinking against the various walls like so many intangible, beaten dogs. The thought draws something of a smirk from Satoshi, an expression furthered by Kirien's comment and which is followed by a nod of agreement. "The old carrion crow has never been serenaded by a Lark and Chickadee. He is overdue." In response, Wetutherag's maw snaps open to bare multiple rows of serrated teeth, a forked tongue squirming like a sickly black worm within, dripping a stinking ichor with each twitch. But it isn't the horrific gaping mouth that he intends to startle the pair with. Rather, it's the blast of subsonic sound emitted seconds later, a screech so high in volume as to be nearly inaudible to even the foxkins. While painful it might prove, the true nature of the prolonged, primal screech is to override all other sound made thus canceling verbal castings, to rattle the mind and prevent coherent thoughts necessary for spells, and to unnerve those not stubborn enough to endure the fear-inducing noise.
Kirien , being an incredibly perceptive thing, sees more than most despite being blind to colour and everything within and beyond the sky. Like Satoshi he has spent time around these apparitions, prone to fits of wanderlust that take him out past the old gate and into the frozen unknown, where he dances with the mountains and raises his voice to join theirs as they sing eternally amidst the ice-encrusted bows of trees and snow plains. Why he is drawn out here so often is mostly unknown to the terramancer, but he finds himself surrounded by ghosts so often that he has to wonder if he is attracted to them, or they to him, sharing some similarity to bind them to each other. He sees that thread now, standing before him in opposition to a tyrannical piece of ancient history. Satoshi, his chickadee, his sister and sibling through blood and unbreakable ties of friendship and fierce love, a kindred spirit, a Queen and a Lady, a being of ice and snow and death, just like the phantoms that watch her as he does. He blinks. Then he smiles, the expression slightly skewed. It seems he was going to say something, but then Wetutherag's jaw opens with a sharp crack and the silence is shattered by a storm of earsplitting sound that transcends human hearing and wracks the empath's entire mind with waves of agonising noise - he cannot stop the way he flinches away, the ghosts around him flickering in a mixture of fear and agitation. Something nudges his back slightly, the touch featherlike. Turning, Kirien looks down to find a small child prodding at him with blue fingers, her long hair matted with blood and tangling about her shoulders, her dress stained red. A massive tear in her face where flesh was ripped away by some feasting beast exposes the white bone of her skull and teeth. Their eyes meet for a half-second, perhaps, and maybe something is shared before the terramancer spins away. Pushing through the pain, Kirien breaks into a sudden run, drawing his right arm back as he leaps then driving the metal limb forward in a powerful swing that heads straight for the devil King's face, backed up by the tremendous strength granted by virtue of his vampiric birthright. He may be momentarily unable to utilise his magic to break mountains, but that doesn't mean Kirien can't -punch- like a mountain. Whether the strike harms Wetutherag or not, he does not care - his main focus is to silence the demon's screeching for long enough that Satoshi can summon the full fury of Frostmaw against him.
Satoshi is an exceedingly stubborn creature. It is this heightened degree of mulish tendencies that keeps her from dropping to her knees under the barrage of sound, pure will refusing to allow her to be cowed by the assault, in the same way it was hardheadedness that kept her from crying out in pain at Bozrah's tortures and demands. Nonetheless, Satoshi can feel her legs quivering, yearning to give out beneath her, or carry her from this hellish place as instinct is screaming she do. Will alone roots her in place as a rigid statue determined to endure. Stubborn doesn't prevent the foxkin's ears from flattening against the sound, however, nor does it prevent her mind from being shaken enough to make spells an elusive memory dancing just out of her reach, as Wetutherag has intended. ...Although the devil did not quite calculate the interference of the ghosts. Not only the one that is prodding Kirien into action, but also the one swooping toward Satoshi, arms spread wide as it places itself between vulpine queen and infernal king. Standing before Satoshi is the apparition of what once was a young woman, likely once beautiful in life with her long, fair hair and smooth, delicate features, all now wasted away into the translucent forms of disheveled locks, mauled flesh, and half-decayed limbs. And while Satoshi does not know it, the ghost feels a debt is owed to the magus, for it had been at her frosty hands that the ghost's long-dead lover had been put to rest recently, after countless years wandering endlessly upon the battlefield in search of his body, and the love letter he'd carried into combat. As it stands, the apparition has taken it upon herself to stand between devil and vampire, momentarily shielding Satoshi from the effects of the screech, and thus freeing up her mind--in the same instant Kirien goes into action. As the terramancer launches himself at Wetutherag, Satoshi's voice rises in hurried song, a lilting call to the ice around them, drawing them toward her to gather in numerous protective rings of frozen shards even as she wills Asorial into her grip. All too readily does the scythe scream its pleasure at the prospect of battle and a feast, its energies hungrily reaching out to lay claim to the wall of azure flames so as to devour them and thus ignite the weapon's length in a midnight fire... a fire tinged along its edges with dingy gray, as Asorial indiscriminately swallowed the defensive ghost in the process.
Whether it's by virtue of Satoshi's 'resolve' to continue, or the imminent threat posed by Kiriens reckless dash, the result is the same. With a noise akin to crackling ice, Wututherag's maw abruptly shuts, bringing a halt to his blasphemous bellows. And not a moment too soon, as the terramancer's metallic fist comes hurting forwards. With an unnatural Fluidity, the fiends body lurches downwards, devoting itself entirely to the task of evading Kirien's initial strike. Though, not for long. That same grace is exercised mere moments afterwards, as Wututherag's body lurches back up into a standing position meant to skewer the vampire upon his horns, and bring Kirien within reach of his powerful arms, so that he might get a firm grasp upon his aggressor. For the moment, at least, Wututherag seems quite keen at keeping something in between himself, and the 'Blazing' scythe currently being wielded by the Queen of Frostmaw.
Kirien realises the debilitating subsonic screech has cut out abruptly, the humming echo all that is left of that crippling sound, and that he can now at least speak without being drowned out instantly. This is not the time for such revelations, he notes as he heads straight for the exposed points of the devil's horns, but it is certainly time to act upon them. His mind, still muddled from the sheer overwhelming power of the reverberations, switches seamlessly to instinct - he gives a harsh scream of his own and fills every syllable of it with energy, willing his element to react as swiftly as possible. Before him, between his chest and Wetutherag's horns, his outstretched arm twists and warps in a manner that would be completely grotesque to witness were the limb not crafted of metal. The steel bends, stretching until it forms a wide shield of a sort that batters against the frozen King's lowered head and saves Kirien from being skewered right through, though it seems he did not take into consideration his own momentum and the force he'd be hitting the other with. Those great, sharp horns punch through what was once his arm and rip deep gashes in his torso; the damage may be minimal compared to what he escaped but it still fricken hurts enough for him to cry out in pain. Kirien grunts, kicks his legs a bit as Wetutherag's arms come up to encircle his body, and spits another command laced with raw earth magic. "Nope," he might have said to taunt the beast, just before the slab of rock directly beneath the terramancer shoots upwards to send Kirien himself flying sky-high with the breath knocked out of him, and likely comes close to shaving off the being's nose in the process. His arm is torn free of the devil's horns in the process and shifts back into a more humanoid construct, and he hits the ground a short ways off, if a little less gracefully than he wanted to, and pretty sore in the chest.
Satoshi, against her better judgement, spares a moment to regard the ghostly tinge of light Asorial has acquired. She can't truthfully say she regrets the accidental devouring of the protective ghost, but the kit likewise is unable to find herself completely comfortable with it, knowing the fate of those that fall prey to Asorial. It's a fate she's willing to subject enemies to, not a miserable spirit who had only intended to help Satoshi. Still, moments of contemplative almost-guilt are not appropriate for this time and place, and especially for this selfish magus. Thus, while Kirien and Wetutherag 'tango', Satoshi's left hand is occupied with tracing patterns upon the air, her fingertip leaving trails of the same darkly colored blue fire as wreathes Asorial, giving glowing form to a series of runes--Kirien might recognize one of the symbols, the arcane mark for 'Earth', placed beneath the line of other words. All the while, the magus is murmuring lyrics at a steady tempo, her magic sent to flood the sigils and grant them the energy needed to serve their various purposes. The first of the runes flares to life the instant Kirien lands, dissolving into the air as its magics call upon the ice-encrusted walls, orders given to transform them from rough hewn surfaces into a forest of spears, every frozen tip hellbent of finding Wetutherag's body--while likewise avoiding striking the terramancer thanks to the Earth rune. Hit or miss, the second rune follows immediately after, a trigger sigil designed to detonate the spikes of ice into countless razorsharp fragments, the point of explosion centered around the Ice Devil and drawn specifically to the warped frost of his being. Satoshi doesn't expect spikes nor shards to outright kill the ruins King, but she's hoping it's enough to momentarily stagger him... a few seconds is all she'll need to dart forward with Asorial in hand to send the scythe's glacial teeth striking out with serpentine speed for the Devil's shadow. Success in capturing that part of Wetutherag's essence will purge Asorial of its fiery shroud as well as the diamond dust gathered around Satoshi, both sources of ice serving as the considerable--and relatively pure--energy needed to pin the infernal being in place.
The devil's in the details- a fact Wetutherag learns when his horns pierce through metal, instead of flesh. It's thus no surprise that rather than shear a trench through Kiriens gut, the frosty fiend finds his horns mired within the Terramancers impromptu steel shield- a fact which has his neck unpleasently snapping backwards, if only to produce the noise an icicle makes when pressure is applied to it. Still, that backwards lurch is enough to bring Wetutherags head clear of earth pillar that erupts from the earth, though the adjustment does nothing to prevent Kirien violently liberating himself from his plight. With a snarl that seems to seep sacrilege, the beast rights itself- if only to bear witness to the abrupt alteration the room has undergoing. As those glacial spears jut outwards from every available surface, the fiend can only think to lash out- the entirety of his bodily mass hurtled towards one of the only spots not thoroughly coated in ice. It's with a chorus of breaking ice that Wetutherag's body wades a trench through that sea of spears- leaving a glimmering mess of white in his wake, accentuated by the peculiar chunks of black which dislodge themself from his body, bit by bit. But not enough to prevent the Devil King from impacting into that pillar of earth that Kirien had summoned to dislodge himself. With that sea of spears now turned into a weaponized wave- that pillar serves to grant Wetutherag a partial refuge- guarding the front of his body- even as he's battered into the ground under the weight of the assault. Unforunately for Satoshi, whilst the Fiend is, in fact, disoriented enough that moving clear of her intended assault would not be tenable... She currently has that pillar of earth to contend with now- given it's hurtling towards her position, propelled by a combination of unholy strength and body mass.
Kirien , crouched on the ground regaining his breath, tastes the clear workings of magic in the air and is glad of the fact that his reckless lunge at least served its intended purpose, allowing Satoshi to weave her potent spells and wage magical war against Wetutherag. Though still a little disorientated himself, the terramancer is ready to begin his own casting - beyond those basic commands called in prior moments of instinct, that is. Stems of ice crystals start to sprout all across the surrounding walls and shatter in a deluge of frozen spears, though amidst all this cryomantic energy Kirien senses a hint of the familiar laced with Satoshi's magic; a shield of a sort, which serves to protect him from the barrage. Those splinters of ice, all ragged edges, seek out the fiend like so many fallen, razor-edged petals, then explode in a rush of arctic air and melodious crackling noise, creating a fine mist of drifting, scintillating particles. Out of the glinting shroud cast by these minuscule crystals the column of rock punches, headed straight for Satoshi, and all thought of offensive spells goes flying out of Kirien's mind. Quickly he speaks a word that erupts fully-fledged and powerful from his tongue and cracks like an opening fissure; and like the invisible hand of a god parting an ocean, the pillar splits straight down the middle, cleaving itself in two as guided by the terramancer's hand. Smooth rock whistles close by the ice magus on both sides and the sheared halves both predictably smash into the far wall. What might be surprising, however, is how those snaking columns burst noisily back out of the frozen stone a moment later, twisting through the air as though they're stony serpents, truly alive and hell bent on returning back to Wetutherag to pummel him senseless. Kirien is so very fond of hitting things with destructive force.
Satoshi's initial charge falters when the pillar is sent her way... and promptly resumed the seconds later after she's discovered Kirien's defensive measures--apparently Satoshi taking cover behind the flat of Asorial's blade was unneccessary. Sparing a second and a step, the foxkin brings herself near enough the terramancer to brush his shoulder in an unspoken show of gratitude before carrying on her original path. With two serpentine pillars as back-up, courtesy of her Coterie-mate. For all the world, it looks like the little kit intends to barrel straight into Wetutherag's hulking mass with all the wild abandon of a berserker. It's not until the last second that her motives alter with the third rune triggering: the ice coating the floor is abruptly smoothed, wrinkles, dents, and rough edges banished to leave a flawlessly glassy surface. Coupling the newly frictionless floor with the icy soles of her boots and a well-placed jab of Asorial's staff against the right wall, and Satoshi requires little effort to go from a head-on collision with Wetutherag to a swift, skating arc around his left flank to bring her almost directly behind him. As the magus passes by, she sets her fourth and final sigil into action, it simply igniting into bright blue flames at the snap of a finger. Specifically, igniting into bright blue flames in front of the Ruins King that serve to cast a heavy shadow right where Satoshi's skidding to a halt. With a blood-curdling screech, Asorial is sent swinging downward in a renewed attempt to skewer the devil's shadow to the ground in a spiritual pinning.
The very moment Wetutherag hit the ground, he was already in the process of trying to right himself. An act that is complicated by the manner in which the ground abruptly shifts beneath himself- inconveniencing not through the slickness of the surface (Due to his unnatural nature), but rather, through the alteration of what he had settled his weight upon; Something which buys Satoshi more than enough time to draw close to the Devil King. Suffice to say, her proximity is hardly appreciated- a murderous glower locked upon her position, before Wethutherags parts his maw and emits a second profane cry. Though bearing a distinct similarity to the cacophony priorly produced, in that each seemed to grate and twist at the ears- that aspect of 'primal' fear rests not within the tone. The cry, in effect, serves a dual purpose: as Wetutherag means for it to disrupt Satoshis attempt at halting herself, as well as her poise, so that her approach towards his position might be a touch more haphazard. And all the more vulnerable to the manner in which his tail abruptly lashes out from amidst the icy debris it was buried under- so as to slash up along her front, and bury itself into her body, by virtue of her own momentum. The secondary purpose of the cry is a touch more insidious, however, resting within the peculiar 'imperious' nature of the sound- the likes of which resounds not with the vampires it's fighting, but rather- the element they are surrounded by. The effect will doubtlessly not go unnoticed, as what ice remains upon the walls and floors begins to crack, and quaver, and a distinct groaning noise emanates from the basement they reside within- a subtle indication of the sudden increase of pressure being placed upon the basement by the frigid element it's encased in, no doubt in an attempt to collapse it upon those present.
A mournful, strained groan resounds around Kirien and calls to him, as the basement's foundations buckle under the monumental pressure put on them by Wetutherag's insidious summons. All around the stone begins to tremble as cracks spread, spiderwebbing over walls; icicles sway and snap, tumbling from the shaking ceiling to pepper the floor with crystal splinters; the permafrost breaks away in ragged layers; clumps of snow begin to trickle through the fissures from above; and it becomes very clear to the terramancer that they will be buried under the collapsing remnants of the building if he does not act. Attentions turn away from the devil King himself -- Satoshi will be more than enough to occupy him -- as Kirien pours his focus into the ground, determined to restore the strength that has held these old walls up for a millennia, through ages of war and ice winds and silence. Though the soil has been frozen solid since before giants built their homes here, it is full of hidden secrets and little things most might not notice, and which only a terramancer can utilise to any real effect. Amidst those threads of pervading ice and particles of soil, tiny scraps of blue iron reside - the curious metal unique to Frostmaw which thrives in the cold, and which Kirien calls upon now, drawing on his mana reserves as he drops to his knees and plants his palms against the floor. Fighting past the pain in his abdomen, the blind man begins to speak in the language of the world, each hurried, golden-wreathed syllable intoned with the sharpness of a razor's edge, euphonious like the ring of steel and clashing swords. The blue iron reacts to the familiar pull of Kirien's voice, and to the movements of his hands as he swipes them across the ice then snaps his arms up in a sudden jerk that provokes the mineral into punching its way through the stone underfoot. Great spires of metal grow like shimmering trees, bending and twisting, their branches spreading across the ceiling to serve as a sturdy support, thus ensuring that Satoshi can continue her battle with the Ruins King without having to worry about the basement crashing down on her head.
Pain, oddly enough, is the second thing to register in Satoshi's mind, preceded by a vague realization that her forward momentum across the ice has been halted before she could properly reach the Ruins King. How..? A glance downward carries the answer, where she can plainly see the blade-like edges of Wetutherag's tail buried into her stomach. A numbing chill across her lower back suggests the blow has skewered straight through her, and yet still pain is only a distant feeling, a dull throb that by all rights should be a raging inferno of agony. "Oh." Not the brightest of Satoshi's quotes. An owlish blink follows the remark along with a squint as the kit peers closer at the tail impaling her. Is that... ice covering it? And not the black ice that encompasses Wetutherag, but clear, natural, and oh-so-pure ice. As Satoshi continues to stare, she begins to notice that the crystals completely coat the devil's tail in a solid, glassy sheet from tip to base. Or at least, as close to the base as can be managed, consider the tail's been severed clean from the body by a gleaming white katana. A high-pitched keening comes from the sword, the melody so rapid and enraged as to case the blade to vibrate violently where it's embedded into the icy floor. Ko'tar, ever the dutiful shield, has apparently forced itself into this match for the sake of protecting its creator, this time by means of slicing through Wetutherag's tail and encasing it in purified ice as a means to buffer the pain inflicted upon Satoshi--too far away initially to have manifested in time to completely halt the devil's attack. It takes Satoshi a number of seconds to process all this, a grateful and grim-mouthed nod given to Ko'tar, before she can pay mind to her surroundings once more. It's a fortunate thing Kirien is present and handling the collapse of the basement. The magus isn't certain she could have managed that while recovering from her unintended skewering. Grimacing, Satoshi grips the offending tail and slowly draws it out, allowing it to drop to the ground with a sickening thud as she hurriedly inspects the injury. No blood. Frozen. Completely frozen over, with an unpleasant mixture of white and black frost, some of the corruptive essence of Wetutherag having escaped Ko'tar's protective barrier to seep into dead flesh, bringing with it the sensation of an ichorous Death creeping through one's veins. Throughout all this, Wetutherag's screeches persist as blasphemous assaults on the ears, and Kirien's Blue Iron pillars contend with the permafrost being called down from above, with Satoshi being of little help as her focus turns inward. But Satoshi is not the only source of assistance Kirien can seek, for the audience of ghosts have responded to the Ruin Tyrant's roar, all of them screaming out their own cacophony of miserable wails, defiant shouts, and mournful howls, their essences' flooding upward and outward to invest their energies into the surroundings. Fortification is granted to the terramancer's metals, the cracking ice, and the bending earth as the spirits of the ruins combine their strength in a collective rebellion against their former ruler. This is enough to startle the Ice Devil into breaking off mid-shriek, momentarily dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events. His subjects, always beaten, always submissive, have turned... they've thrown in their lot with the avatar of the Snow Maiden.
Wetutherag's attack on the building's foundation halts as suddenly as the tyrant's roar cuts out, his astonishment palpable as his subjects turn against him without warning. Never less than wary of his presence, their sudden sense of courage is granted to them by the familiar replica of their Snow Maiden, at last allowing them to become more than silent observers - the uprising is another wound to rattle the ancient King's pride and stokes the red flames of his anger. Whether due to agony or rage, or some toxic mix of both, Wetutherag begins to scream again, his voice ragged with fury, burning with the overwhelming desire to end Frostmaw's Queen. Apparently skewering her right through is not enough; no, no, it will -never- be enough. Not until he has sapped all her magic, tortuously drawing out every last drop of her beloved powers, her spirit, and her unlife, until the stricken magus is no more than a husk, will Wetutherag cease his assault and rest, unchallenged. He has to do something, quell this insurrection, take out Satoshi once and for all - the Ruins King knows the time to end this is now, as a wicked grin splits his demonic features...
A surge of fluid, ice cold and tainted with the devil's energy, pours out of the open wound where his tail was severed from his body. The viscous liquid puddles onto the basement floor as the walls resound with the defiant cries of ghosts, but Wetutherag pays them no mind. Liquid inky black, and with a distinctly unnatural sheen to it, flows continuously from his injury; his skull cracks and caves in on itself, cascading in a rush of glinting shards into the ocean steadily growing across the floor. Piece by jagged piece, the king's body collapses until a final deluge of fluid swallows the remains of his legs and rolls across the basement floor in a great wave that licks up the walls, hissing, and then all fades into an eerie quiet. Kirien blinks down at the silent waters rippling around his thighs and obscuring his hands. Then he looks up. The old basement has been transformed into a strange place, the floor a sea of shifting black where trees of blue iron sprout and shimmer and spread their branches across the ceiling - it would almost be an oddly beautiful hideaway were it not for the pungent stench of corruption writhing in the air. Wetutherag is most certainly not dead and there is no mistaking this, for he can be felt all around now, consuming everything in a fog of contempt and malicious anger, his emotions as tangible in the air as they are in the chilled water that made up his solid form. Quickly Kirien pushes himself to his feet and sloshes through it toward Satoshi. "Chickadee, we should--" Go? Run? Take care of her wound? He's not sure how he wants to finish that suggestion but he has no time to, anyway, for the weary terramancer quickly comes to realise the liquid has solidified round his ankles and locked him in place. His sibling, however, has more to worry about. The black ice coating the ground starts to -move-, rushing for Satoshi with evil intent, as it begins to crawl up her legs in slick waves and layers of harsh, biting frost and shadowed edges. Slowly, like the creeping hand of death, the ice climbs higher and higher over the introspective magus, smothering pale white skin and clothing in glossy darkness, and it begins to -squeeze-, but not wholly in the physical sense. The battle turns slightly inwards now, with Wetutherag storming against Satoshi's mind as well as her body, intent on not only weakening her physically but mentally too; wearing down those stubborn walls until he can infect and infest her, eating away at her consciousness and spirit, and devouring her up until the point that she can no longer withstand him and is assimilated into his own being. For what Wetutherag desires is to assume control of this diminutive body with the face reminiscent of the Snow Maiden, to twist her into his likeness and stamp out her memory, and show everything that dwells in this frozen wasteland, once and for all, that he is its single ruler. There is no room for another.
Although the better part of her thoughts are turned inward, that does not mean Satoshi is utterly oblivious to her surroundings, nor Wetutherag's transformation. A frightfully calm eye is turned upon the insidious flooding of black waters, calculating, cold, and far from alarmed. In fact, deep within the amber that flecks her eyes is there a spark of delight, a malicious gleam that's growing steadily brighter with each ripple. Kirien's words are met with no response, save for a small sound. A fool might mistaken it for a barely suppressed whimper, yet as the seconds tick by, and the liquids gather, the sound builds. Small at first like the trickle of a newborn stream, it bubbles up in rapid growth: laughter. Not laughter of mirth, nor even the hysterical laughter of overpowering fear, but rather a cold, malevolent, and pernicious melody, both grating on the ears in its baleful violence yet alluring in its unadulterated glee. Throwing her head back, the kit laughs on, not seeming to care that the Ruins King's liquid form is rapidly climbing her form, entirely lost to some private and nightmarish amusement. Kirien's empathy will be assaulted by waves of dark, murderous sensations intimately woven with the purest of delights in an unnatural tapestry of emotion, the magus making no attempt to quell her mental state--if she's even aware of her sibling's presence. And still she laughs on. When Wetutherag's essence has reached her neck, however, the laughter abruptly cuts off, as swiftly as if a plug were pulled, and the foxkin's head snaps back down. Eyes a solid and luminous amber fixate on the black sludge encasing her as a devilish smirk twists its way across normally delicate features. "You're all the same," she hisses out in a voice hardly recognizable as her own--in truth, those that had the misfortune of encountering the Wraith Bozrah might detect his foul tones intermingled into Satoshi's own dulcet ones. A shudder runs through the liquids that compose Wetutherag seconds before Satoshi's ice-hewn arm bursts through, black sludge dripping from a limb sprouting with serrated spikes, elongated claws poised as if about to strike. "You're all the same," she repeats. "You think your darkness so black you can smother me within it. You think me pure, helpless, harmless. An easy target for the wicked to prey upon." Knife-like claws flex. "I. Am. Not. Prey." Claws descend into the shadowy liquid, ice blazing with azure and ash-gray light. Wetutherag, despite lacking a mouth, screeches in agony. "Let's dance, devil." The light grows brighter, devouring the shadows of the room and seeming to grow stronger for it, until with the crackle of shattering ice Satoshi, Wetutherag, and the collective ghosts disappear... leaving behind no more than a flurry of snowflakes and a few droplets of the ichor. And the pair of phantom swordsmen and undead warrior from earlier, murder in their eyes. It's seems, whatever Satoshi has done, hasn't brought Kirien completely out of the woods yet...
Kirien still lacks the necessary barriers required to shield himself from intense bursts of emotion. The feeling of Wetutherag in this shadowed place already has his head reeling in nauseous waves, but when Satoshi begins to laugh, her mental state crumbling, the empath begins to lose it in an entirely different manner. Trembling under this weighty, macabre, murderous sensation, he's barely standing, his psyche battered by the maniacal force that is his unhinged sibling. A symphony of nightmarish sensation unfolds around him like the alluring petals of a poisonous flower; beautiful to look upon but not to touch, its deadly thorns concealed until the foolish admirer attempts to pluck it. Had he been far enough away to be safe of it, he might have admired this malicious disaster in a similar fashion, but here it only tortures him. Ceaselessly the magus' dark laughter lacerates his mind and pushes him to the brink of unconsciousness, where he teeters upon the knife's edge. A tumble here will spell his death, though, and he is painfully aware of that. Even so, he chokes, lungs full of tar-like, corrupted emotions and ice that he cannot shake off.
And then, suddenly...it vanishes. Blind to the growing light, Kirien only realises that his sibling and the ice devil have blinked out of existence when the pounding of his head starts to lessen, slowly, as though he's rising out of a troubled sleep. Senses refocus to find the basement is not quite empty yet, for there is movement here still, but everything is far more bearable than the concussive weight from before. Kirien spares a moment to fear for Satoshi and wonders where her snowstorms tore her and the Ruins King away to, but his attentions are soon recaptured by the whistling fall of a frost-coated blade headed for his shoulder. He stumbles back with a pained hiss as it tears a gash in his flesh, sluggish, feeling like he's spent the whole night consuming untold amounts of alcohol. The taste in his mouth sings of a bitterly unpleasant emotion instead of the warmer tang of brandy, however, and he is not allowed the comfort of believing this is all a dream. Disorientated and drained from his prior exertions, Kirien dances away when the swordsman advances again - fingers clench, tendons tightening as he tries to spit a spell into the frigid air. Nothing comes in response, and nothing shifts beneath his feet. "Damn," the vampire curses, stubbornly pushing through his exhaustion. With his magic reserves so drastically depleted, unable to wield the world as his weapon, he resorts to answering brute force with brute force even if it puts immense strain on his body in the process. The more solid of his three assailants brandishes his sword once more while the phantoms hang back, the warrior's great blade brought across with a horizontal swing that would rend him in two were he to misjudge his timing; but Kirien ducks under the arc of the blade and spins fluidly aside, pivots and braces himself on one leg, then pushes off so as to fling himself at the hulking monstrosity with as much force as he can muster. His right arm winds back and jerks forward in a powerful punch - it strikes its target and the old warrior's head snaps back with a horrible crack, his neck clearly broken. But he rolls his head from side to side as if merely stretching and continues to move, as his spine realigns itself and repairs. Kirien growls at him threateningly, the exchanged blows serving as a depressing reminder that his efforts are in vain. Then, the phantoms move in.
As before, they whirl around the terramancer in a dance of dizzying ethereal lights and plummeting temperatures, the latter of which breed tiny ice crystals into the air to create a thick mist that swirls and glints in the half-light. A foolish kick at one ends in Kirien's leg being numbed instantly, a creeping chill seeping into his body as frost encrusts his clothing and begins to accumulate on his cheeks. Shivering, desperate, he realises he won't be getting out of this without some help. Amidst the icy maelstrom, he grounds himself and invokes the very stone around him, sending his voice deep into the depths of the world, blending it with the beat he moves and lives to. He speaks hushed, rushed words that flow like the cascade of pebbles down a slope and have built up into a tremendous landslide of a roar by the time he is done:
"I am Kirien Vahir-Ar'Anthari, blood of your blood. I am an earthsinger - in my veins runs liquid mercury, my heart is crystallised, my skin hard as stone, my bones steel, gemstones for my eyes. I forever feel the melody of the world in my soul. I see with you, I am you, and you are I. So are we bound. Hear me and grant me your power, O great earth mother!"
In truth, the words are not any form of ancient scripture found in forgotten tomes or carven into walls. Kirien made them up on the spot, hoping beyond hope that lacing them with the last of his energy would carry them to where they need to be. The ghosts gradually draw closer in tighter spirals, and the undead warrior lifts his weapon, and Kirien wills his beloved element to answer him. Time seems to slow to a crawl. Edged with jagged shards of permafrost, the ancient swordsman's blade comes down in an arc set to cleave the empath in two as it slices through empty air and frozen soul alike, and Kirien cannot find the strength to move. Just as ice and metal bite into his shoulder again, his supplication is heard and the world gives its answer - a surge of golden sparks explodes from the ground underfoot, patterning the cracked tiles with rippling patterns that zone in on the earthsinger while blasting his attackers back, filling the basement with a brilliant light. Stone ruptures and tangled threads of energy lance through air and rock alike to spear Kirien, infesting him with a radiant glow that glimmers beneath his skin. Angular lines of gold spread like markings of fire up his arms from his fingertips, over his chest and neck, across his cheeks and forehead, where it all culminates in an exquisite design etched into his flesh. Powerful shockwaves deter the others in the basement from approaching as Kirien recedes into himself...
...and receives the silent blessing of the earth elementals he called to. Within his very core, the essence of one such being flares and fuses with his own spirit, its caress a subtle nudge against his mind and a whisper; "You surpassed our expectations and have understood the voice of metal. We give this in acknowledgement of your ability, to strengthen and to guide you, and allow you to become what you were born to be, Kirien Vahir-Ar'Anthari."
Waking is like learning to live without breathing all over again. The world is the same but there is something clearly different about it, or about -him-, that makes everything seem slightly skewed in some way. He feels the lull of earthsong before he has even opened his eyes. Was it always this clear? The basement is practically singing as it phases back into his perceptions, a monochromatic painting of cold and metal and rock - the ghosts are still here, too. Haloed by this aura of terramantic energy, granted a short-lived vitality boost by that fusion within him, Kirien lets loose a word that crackles with the same raw power surrounding him; the syllables erupt and provoke one of the treelike structures of blue iron nearby into warping out of shape with a metallic keening. Twisting to reform itself as a great blade within his hands, the sword bears a shimmering gold-hued edge, pure terramantic energy controlled to sharpen the weapon further and add to each swing the devastating force of untamed earth. The basement rings with shrill wraithen shrieks and the concussive blast of shattering rock, and Kirien's unassuming virtuous weapon, Arte, quietly swallows up all three spirits defeated by its wielder as all fades back into a grey silence muffled by intermittent snowfall, and Kirien ascends the steps out of the basement.
He ran into that dark place simply chasing after his child, never imagining how it would change him during the time he was caught there. He leaves an earth genasi, intent on using the last of his energy to find his sister.
Blood Stained Ice
Far from basement, far from terramancer, far from all signs of life, the devil and the vixen flicker into existence for the umpteenth time, having violently 'hopped' through fragments of ice in progressively shorter bursts since being wrenched from the basement. Amid a whirlwind of snow, blood, sludge, and howling ghosts, the duo return, entangled still until they hit the permafrost. Upon impact, the two are torn apart by the ethereal claws of countless spirits, clamoring to be heard by the queen, screaming to overwhelm the tyrant, all emboldened by their earlier interference to push themselves further past the veil of death. Wetutherag is the first to recover, his liquid state pulled together enough to allow him to slash out at the clinging souls with claws of black ice, rending them through physical and spiritual means. With mournful cries of agony, the spirits are expelled into the beyond, thus freeing the Ruins King before Satoshi has had the chance to disentangle herself from the others. Partially reformed by now, Wetutherag slithers toward the magus, claws flashing out to shred through her ethereal bounds before they lunge forward, taking her by the throat and lifting her free of the ghostly remnants and the ground. As the kit squirms weakly against his grip, the tyrant begins to speak, voice a hideous mixture of hissing, guttural, discordant tones, words indistinguishable from the snarling of rabid beasts and spitting of enraged vipers; yet beneath the harsh sounds is the unmistakeable note of language, rhythm found even in this chaos, however painful upon the ears it might be. When Satoshi shows no signs of understanding his words, Wetutherag snarls, tightens his grip, and shifts from speaking the sacrilegious language of his infernal brethren to something vaguely resembling Common. Albeit, a more archaic form with heavy, sulfurous undertones that threaten to overwhelm the younger language, "For eons this has been My land. The dead My servants. The living My playthings." His grip hardens, forcing a strangled groan from Satoshi. Where his claws have embedded themselves in her neck, thick lines of black can be seen being fed into her veins, a devil's poison set upon a vampire. "The Snow Maiden of old could not best Me, after I had thrown her people into Discord, waging war on one another, forgetting I was their foe. You are no better." As he speaks, the venom courses onwards and the amber luminescence of Satoshi's eyes begins to dim, leeched out by the obsidian. "You are an upstart. A pup. A toy for one such as Me." Satoshi's squirming starts to still, leaving her momentarily limp in the tyrant's hand. "A few moments more and I will claim your form as My own. From there, I shall raze your city, destroy your family, torment your people, and bring their remnants under My sway. All by your own hand." A tremor runs through the magus and, were the devil king not too absorbed in his words to notice, the black begins to recede from her eyes. Vulpine features harden into fierce angles, lips drawn back over fangs in a murderous snarl. How dare he threaten Frostmaw. How dare he threaten her people. How dare he threaten -her family-. Wrath seethes without relent from the foxkin's eyes as she stares at Wetutherag. ..But the Ruins King carries on, ignoring her glares, the howling of the snow-laden wind, the rumble of permafrost, "Not much longer now. Any last words, 'Snow Maiden'?" The title is twisted into a mockery, an insult, the cherry on the devilish cake.
Satoshi forces a grim smirk onto her face, spitting out between blood and clenched teeth, "Yes, just two..." A shudder runs through the genasi then, spreading first through her form before rippling outward across snow and ice, all falling silent beneath the wave. A tension descends upon the land, a stifling pressure that sends even the unhappy dead into a state of quiet, as if Frostmaw itself is holding its breath. Waiting. Everything waits now, as Satoshi has been waiting this entire time, for this very moment... Wetutherag frowns, clearly annoyed at the Ice Queen's stalling, when his body gives a harsh jerk. Looking down, the beast finds Satoshi's ice-hewn hand buried in his chest up to her elbow, having used the hardened element to punch through his skin before it had fully solidified back into its proper state. Vulpine claws clench shut into a tight fist over the ice devil's frozen heart. Powerful and ancient this being might be, able to suffer any injury to body without fear of death, but like all others of his kind, he carries one true weakness: his core, the embodiment of his existence, his very essence, an arctic flame not unlike the spark of life that maintains Elementals. And Satoshi has taken ahold of it. Has encased it within her purified ice, cutting it off from Wetutherag. "Shut. Up." With that, the Lady of Frostmaw rips her hand back out, still gripping Wetutherag's heart in the form of an orb of pulsing black light as thick, darkly colored water drips from it like blood. ...before Satoshi's fangs envelope it, to devour the essence whole.
Only the barest scrap of a shriek issues from Wetutherag's maw before his body is decimated: parts dissolving into snowdust, others shattering like glass under too much pressure, and more still crumbling away like old mud, or shriveling as parchment in a fireplace. And so ends the Ruins King... although Satoshi doesn't see it, having suddenly doubled over with an agonized cry. The pain of the wound in her stomach is nothing compared to the fire rushing through her veins now. One moment, it feels as if an inferno has erupted within her, the next, a blizzard, chill so deep even the cryomancer is left shivering violently from it. Dropping to her knees, the foxkin clutches at her chest, the source of the indescribable pain, in wild terror. What is this? What has that devil done? His vile poisons should have been made impotent when he'd died, why do her veins still burn with flame and ice?! Curling in on herself, Satoshi swallows the scream threatening to escape from her throat, for even in her agony her stubborn will refuses to let such a weakness prevail. She would not for Bozrah, she will not for Wetutherag! Instead, to keep from crying out, the foxkin bites down on her lip. In seconds she's bitten through the flesh, flooding her mouth with the bitter taste of her own dead blood. Still the chill and burning rage on, each vying for dominance within the magus, each uncaring of the torture it inflicts upon her... until it all abruptly ends. Sheets of Azure Flame leap up from the snows around Satoshi to encase her in their blue light, blue fingers licking out at flesh and clothing as they sink in, a pleasant, soothing coolness left wherever they touch. As the Cold Fire washes over her, Satoshi can feel the pain melt away, and yet, no bliss follows, only emptiness. While there is no pain, there is no relief either. There is nothing. She is nothing. The everpresent urge of vampiric bloodlust, gone. The lilting songs of the ice eternally in her ears, gone. Pulled into the abyss with Wetutherag's heart. As the flames die down, their work completed, Satoshi slumps forward into the snow. Not even a groan escapes her, simply the sound of her hitting the snow.
A single ember of the Azure Flames drifts to the ground amid its snowflake kin to land beside the fallen queen's head. Numbly Satoshi stares at the tiny ball of light, neither comforted nor alarmed by its presence, merely aware. Without thinking, for thought does not exist within her mind presently, Satoshi's icy hand reaches out to lay atop the ember, drawn there perhaps due to reflex, or ice tending toward its purest form in the Flames. As if the glacial hand were kindling, the ember bursts into life and begins dancing across Satoshi's fingers, leaping with eager life along her arm, around her shoulders, and over her body until every inch of the queen is enshrouded once more in the blue blaze of the Azure Flames. Slowly, the song of ice returns to Satoshi's ears with the familiar voices of whispering snow and rumbling blizzard. Yet, beneath the melody lurk new notes, snatches of mournful singing, voices haunting yet alluring. It is the music of the restless dead of the Ruins calling to their Queen. Never before has the ice magus heard the voices of the dead so clearly, almost as if she were one of them... But no. She can't be dead. For she can still feel the threads that tie her to the ones she's sworn to: the golden ribbon that links her with her Kindred Spirit, the fiery crimson string that binds Wizard and Magus... and the amber rope that secures her soul to her Calico. She can't be dead, so long as they all live. She won't allow it.
"...Then why can I hear you?" The words are hardly spoken. Throat damaged by Wetutherag's grasp and wounds not yet healed prevent her voice from reaching anything above a raspy whisper. As if in answer, the air before her changes, taking on the shimmery quality of a heatwave off sunbaked sands, and from it steps forth the impressive form of a Frost Giant. Clad in intricate plate mail of a color so pale as to look like glass, the warrior towers over her expectantly. Satoshi's eyes trace over his form slowly and bit by bit take in the dents, tears, stains, and breaks covering the armor, as well as the deathly pallor of his frosted flesh, the prominence of his skull beneath his facial skin, and the almost translucent quality of his entire ice-clad appearance. A frozen soul of war. "You're dead," Satoshi states bluntly from her prone state on the ground, "But I'm not. What do you want?"
The warrior blinks slowly but otherwise remains motionless. Although his mouth does not open, when he speaks, his voice resonates down to Satoshi's very bones, "For you to live. You've slain the one who dominated us. He who led us to our untimely, dishonorable deaths. You who've struggled to put my brethren to rest despite the many years they've walked the unlife."
Satoshi stares with uncomprehending eyes. "...why do I feel so funny?"
Such a blunt, childish question is enough to make even this unwavering spirit give pause, a light tug visible at the corner of his lips. "Snow Maiden. You were impaled by the King of Ice Devils, enshrouded by His mind, infested by His darkness, infected by His venom, on top of eating His heart. By all rights, you should be walking among us at this very moment."
"So why aren't I," Satoshi counters, a spark of annoyance strengthening her voice.
"The Icekin refused to surrender you, Frost Singer." Without another word, the warrior steps back into the haze that'd borne him here, leaving Satoshi lying alone and baffled in the snow. The Icekin? Did he mean her teachers? Had the Elementals intervened in her being overwhelmed by Wetutherag's corruption?
A bell rings in the distance, low and gentle at first but growing steadily more urgent as it gets nearer. In a matter of moments, the hulking outline of Trebel can be seen bounding through the snow, having forgotten his ability to fly in his anxiety to find Satoshi. Spotting the kit's prone form, the angha skids to a halt, creeps closer, and nudges lightly at her side with his broad muzzle. A ringing whimper is uttered by the fledgeling, the sound hiking up into an ecstatic squeal when Satoshi groans in protest. "Le'me 'lone, 'bel." Eternally delighted his caretaker is alive--and equally oblivious to her need of a healer--Trebel settles down into the snow beside her, stretches a wing protectively over her, and coils himself securely around her, content to watch over Satoshi until she's ready to go home. That will be a while. Satoshi needs time to recover, and time to think. To think about Wetutherag, about the ruins' spirits, about why she feels as if a piece of herself has gone missing...
...And why had the warrior called her a Frost Singer? That's the true name of the Ice Elementals.
The oblivious Eidolon sleeps...
OOC Note: Much thanks to Kirien for helping me with this RP, and to Kasyr, for providing some posts as Wetutherag, as well as inspiration in all things diabolical. You guys are the best.<3