RP:Field of Broken Dreams

Part of the Learning to Fall Arc

Summary: Upon encountering Ymheshphilun and his minions in the decimated meadows to the South, peace does not last long; there is however, hope within the carnage of a brighter future.

Characters: Aetyyr, Ymheshphilun.

Location: Field of Ash.

Ymheshphilun had not been the cause of the destruction of the flowers, but of course that wasn't going to stop him from rolling his minions in the ash, trying perhaps to get some of the residue to clean out their systems and stop their rotting. Ym himself didn't like it--after all, it got into lousy places in his exoskeleton and hampered traction--but still, it helped his forces so he had to be here to supervise them. Currently, all he had was a small squadron. He didn't like moving about with a mass army--that drew too much attention. Of course, being a fifty-foot blacker-than-obsidian centipede tended to draw attention anyway, so it was kind of a moot point. He had noticed the approach of someone, descending from the sky, but he'd completely ignored the man.

Aetyyr has fallen to a knee, alabaster digits wringing through the dirt with a disconcerted lack of rhyme or reason; what to do, how to repair - what next. So consumed was he in altruistic plight it took a moment's breadth for him to pick up upon and focus thereafter on the rolling Undead, the keen estate of his opaline eyes narrowing in something close-to rage. In a tongue that goes against all natures of tone and pitch he cries out, the lilting cadence weighted with an arcanic resin and followed swiftly by a searing flash of seraphic light, the Fallen lashing out without gesture or warning.

Ymheshphilun had less than perfect hearing, so he was left mostly oblivious to the attack until it was far too late. The searing burst of energy obliterated his minions before his eyes, leaving them as little better than... well, charred corpses, slowly disintegrating into more ash. Ym's self control was... nil. Turning his entire focus on this new man, he decided to unload every form of attack he had all at once. He reared up and charged, blasting forward at full attack velocity. Webbing sprayed from his top five pairs of limbs at all angles, sticky and adhesive and some weaving together in midair. There was the thick black liquid interspersed with flame. On contact with anything, the spraw would explode into a ball of orange flame, raining burning residue all around. The two forms of attack would collide with each other, and now not only was the wide angle covered by webs but there was a giant inferno of blazing adhesive rushing out. Even during this, Ym pumped a burst of air through a special, vibrating, bony organ that changed the air into a pulse of incredibly loud sound, aimed directly for the target and nearly solidified and compact. The effect would be a feeling like a giant's fist to the chest, and this burst collected some of the flame as well, accelerating it to near-sonic levels. The intended effect was to totally disrupt all his senses--blinding him with the flame explosions, burning and searing him with the sticky residue, inflaming his smell with the scent of the webbing (possibly his taste, too) and pounding his hearing with the noise. Total sensory overload, meant to leave him paralyzed as Ym initiated the second phase of his assault. Should the desired effect be accomplished, Ym would continue charging forward and attempt to trample the man, what would seem like thousands of legs pounding over his form, terrible claws ripping at his flesh as he passed over.

Aetyyr rises to stand tall as his strike rings true; shoulders thrown back and chest heaving with residual vehemence and adrenaline; his oncoming opponent surveyed from the cornea-less plateaus of his white eyes. The Seraph’s right leg pushes through the ash before him, scribing a line in the dirt, ‘Tyyr readying himself for battle. With one strong push off his still-grounded left he is propelled forward, taking leave of the ground with that sickly snap of his wings cracking open echoing, sinews and feathers aligned in a perfect veil of white in his wake. As if moving without conscience thought his feathered appendages slam shut, this time covering his armoured form entirely, the searing web scoring the once-immaculate entirety of his plumed-shield. Strike two connects also, redirecting the direction of his passage and sending him returning the way he came, his back near-horizontal and wings draped open in the forthcoming dazed-moments that consume the Seraph. Fortuitously this appears to be his benefit, opening up a distance of some measure between the rampaging centipede and allowing him the time to readjusted his means of attack; a dexterous series of body movements bringing him back to his feet with a skilled incline of his wings. From that still-perfect visage a semblance of emotion comes, his lips curling in an avaricious use of magics, contrasting greatly in the impact they obtain – the Fallen’s right fist begins to glow, an array of incandescent and consecrated energies ripping and writhing about the length of his forearm and fingers before the entire appendage is sent smashing into the decaying loam before him, knees bending to allow for extra leverage and momentum. The connection of Guardian and terra tears the world literally asunder, an exponentially increasing crack widening with an alarming alacrity before his feet and decimating everything in its in path, chunks of hubris and debris plummeting into the vast gulley below. Should Ym not be able to avoid the sudden appearance of the pitfall it was going to be an incredibly long way down; at least he had a ton of legs to land on.

Ymheshphilun watched as his strikes landed that something didn't seem qute right--blast it, avians, those wings gave them something of an advantage against him. He snarled, but before he could do anything the earth below him began to widen and open, as if wanting to swallow him up. Shifting himself to the side, trying to get around the fissure, he was nonetheless a multi-ton armored creature and thus had a lot of inertia. His direction changed, but not quite enough--the front part of his body began falling in, legs scraping along the wall. With a flash of insight, he hit the brakes hard, digging into the wall with everything he had. The crack eventually widened around his backside as well, but by this time Ym had himself locked firmly to the wall, head actually inside the dirt and still digging. With an incredible effort of will, the centipede drilled into the canyon's side, pushing himself deeper and deeper until he was lost from sight. That had taken a lot out of him, but there was still work to do. He continued tunnelling, below the earth, as quietly as possible. Using his electroreceptors to locate his target, Ym moved about until he was right underneath, if at all possible. Then, with an explosion of earth and dirt and a terrifying, polyphonic roar, the Black Lurker Below burst from hiding and attempted to latch onto the avian with his massive claws and teeth, trying to rend flesh and tear the man apart.

Aetyyr would take flight soon after the departure of his seemingly ill-fated insect nemesis, gliding through the relative stillness with a palpable sense of ill-ease; it had been too easy. The rattle and polyphonic hum of Ym’s arrival disorientates and distracts the still-weak Seraph, the claws of his opponent digging rivulets in the enchanted metals of his armour. A string of something that can only be curses in the forbidden tongue perforates the clamour of the all consuming Centipede – ‘Tyyr left struggling for his life vainly with his, in comparison, meager physicality, punches and knees thrown where space and time allow; long stretches of crimson revealing themselves from behind the meshed lining of his leg plates, the ancient enchantments held within the only thing allowing his continued survival. The foreign tones of Aetyyr’s voice continue to ascend in their clarity and pitch, surpassing all but the sound of the still-tumbling cliff edge which the ravine consumes. From what appears to be the crux of the Fallen’s torso a light begins to mass, gradually intensifying as shreds and tears of the purest white coalesce into existence, each a paler shade than previous – soon there is nothing but the light and the sound of the consecrated warrior and his all encompassing holy might, the sanctified endeavor hopefully enough to waylay the relentless beast and make ease his escape.

Ymheshphilun had gotten a taste of blood, and wanted more--after all, this man had demolished his forces with no warning, it was only just that he be given the same treatment. The punches and knees--for the most part--rang off of two-inch-thick near-metallic exoskeleton and likely caused more harm to the thrower than the throwee. However, there was that light--it was starting to become a nuisance. His eyes adjusted at first, but soon it became more than a nuisance, it became a threat. Finding no suitable alternative, Ym threw the man to the earth with every ounce of force he could muster, trying to smash him unconscious on the ground. He followed this up by attempting to collapse on top of him, trying to smother both the light and the target. He would shift in place, using the sandpapery feel of his exoskeleton to irritate and perhaps strip away at flesh. If this didn't work, Ym would have to try something else--but for now, he'd wait and see.

Aetyyr reaped the rewards of his evasive efforts. The Seraph finding freedom and retaining it first and foremost with a wing-aided expulsion of air to send him careening back away from the lumbering goliath. Airborne and abreast now of the massive beast he shook his tired head, blemishes of exhaustion clearly evident upon his features; the well of his willpower dwindling under the attacks from the relentless creature. From his vertical vantage ‘Tyyr came on anew, left and right hand coming together to join at the palm, fingers splayed wide in a bowl like display. Joining the melee were words of aetheric origin, the ancient verbiage thrumming deep within the larynx of the battered Fallen Guardian, riddling his form entirely with a static-like luminosity to swiftly culminate entirely in his arms: biceps and forearms a conduit before finally reaching his digits – a violent haze of Holy power streaming down upon Ym akin to a sun’s single ray, the benevolent energies behind the torrent seeking to sear corrupted flesh and exoskeleton from bone and dissuade the Centipede from further assault.

Ymheshphilun was rather disappointed that his attack had not succeeded, and whirled to face the man. Eyes sharpening at first to adjust for the change in light levels, he froze at the abrupt realization that something very bad was coming. Focusing inwardly, Ym went to the option he'd dreaded using. Spirit powers--the ability to wield his soul in combat, unlocked and taught by Kumorohyou--were what he needed to protect himself. Drawing energy from the air, a dark purple fog of energy congealing into a solid barrier directly in front of him, mind and soul pushing as one, trying to hold the dark wall in place before the terrible holy onslought. He needed to come up with a way to stop this before his energy ran out--he couldn't hold the stalemate forever. Finally, he had no choice. Shifting himself to the side just enough to make it so the beam would merely strike limbs and burn them off, he dispersed the wall for favor of a counterattack. He began pulling in energy from the air, and then attempted to shift the drain from the environment to his foe. But it wasn't energy drawn from his foe's body--no, Ym was trying to pull at his emotions and desires. Trying to absorb the anger and pain and desire to hurt. Trying to use for his energy happiness and sadness and fear and hatred and love. Within moments of the drain beginning, should the effect work correctly, there would be little left of his target's mind but apathy. What would be the point of lasering it with magic? That was tiring. Why keep flying? Why keep living, when the whole universe ceased to matter? Of course, the problem with this attack was that it required so much focus from Ym that he could no longer defend himself--but if it worked right, he wouldn't need to.

Aetyyr relinquishes his fervent hold on the magics that pour forth from the medium of his digits, the devastating assault rendering even thought difficult such was the effort placed behind it. The scorched beast was trophy enough for the benign Guardian; the tattered length of his feathered appendages working hard to keep him airborne and stable; it had been too much too soon from the Fallen. The empathic assault of Ym rings true in so much as it meets its intended target and incites its vile workings. Alas, it was genuinely a poor course of action for the single minded Seraph – his entire existence based solely on the morals of his duty, canon of his beliefs and the arrow-like focus of all his kind, created only to serve those in need there is no real emotions to corrupt and waylay, no feebleness to incite; strung up like a puppet of the Gods Aetyyr speaks, using an antiquated version of the common tongue, loathe as he is to partake in the language, “Thy strike falls short, oh lurker in the depths – your tyranny this day has not gone unnoticed, nor will it go unanswered for.” Yes, it was too soon yet to truly face the gargantuan creature, his blade must be returned and his corporeality strengthened in this realm “Look to the skies for an end to your suffering.”

Ymheshphilun stopped his attack on hearing the avian speak, absorbing back into himself the energy he'd poured into the effect. Those limbs he'd allowed to be targeted had of course been scorched off, but he could eventually regenerate them. He vibrated, unable to respond verbally since he hadn't a proper mouth or lips or vocal cords to speak with. However, the words to him were somewhat off--what tyranny? What suffering? He pulsed an aura of confusion into the air, attempting to communicate his lack of understanding.

Aetyyr is swooping upward and away, forearms crossed across the length of his battered armour as the telekinetic-wave reaches him, the incoherence and confusion behind the blast striking a chord of minimal understanding; the Seraph’s flight coming fully about to soar unsteadily abreast of the creature. Again he speaks, his rebuttal coming in that archaic melody, “Look around you, creature of the night – the destruction and carnage that your minions reveled within. Can you not feel it? The life that once blossomed here, the cacophony of sound, the vibrancy of being and the surety of a continued existence.” His left hand, palm flat, sweeps outward to take in the decimated surroundings, “Now all that lies here is death – the place is rank with a nothingness that cuts me to the core.” The tempo of the consecrated Warrior’s words begins to increase, the skies overhead seeming to tumult and eddy with cloud and sound; something deep and thunderous. Hark, a storm approaches, “It cannot be allowed to continue. A world riven is a world lost.”

Ymheshphilun hummed quietly. He agreed with some of it--sort of, if in the wrong direction entirely. Where there was nothing was nothing to torment. And then where would all his fun come from? He couldn't feel 'it', of course, but he got the point. And, upon getting the point, he failed to see what was keeping him here anymore. The avian had been flying away, there was a storm coming, his minions here were dead and he needed to rest. Thus, without even a telepathic goodbye of any kind, he dropped back into his tunnel in the earth and rumbled away, noise created by his departure gradually receding in the distance--that is, unless the seraph wasn't quite finished and wanted to follow.

Aetyyr gave one large flap of his massive wings, a haze of ash derisively ‘wooshing’ across the scorned earth below; one last action taken before flight was taken, directly vertical his lean form spiraled upward through the gathering cloud line. Aetherics brash and bold rip from his lips as he does so, igniting the impending storm with an extra fever, a near rabid desire to flood and drown – to wash everything away in a righteous torrent and that is just what happened, the skies near-as-literally-possible opened up, divulging an endless tirade of rain, the massive ravine created earlier becoming a ditch of sorts for the heinous ash and debris to tumble down into. Perhaps now, life had a chance once more to blossom. Perhaps.