RP:Prophetic Translation

Synopsis: A trio cross paths in the Cathedral. Trent learns some disturbing news relating to the gauntlet he wears.

Characters: Trent, Xersom, Ynhaldei

Location: Cenril

Date: April 28th, 2016

Cathedral of the Divine Three

Xersom was inside of the proper of the Cathedral, where he stood before the dias of the holy sanctum that was epitomized by the mystical torch of eternal sacrifice that glowed, unhindered, upon the altar of statuario venato marble and a single cobalt stone. The creature did not ascend dias steps, and the altar and table were pristine and still radiant in their divine blessing in stark contrast to the rest of the setting. Pews were shattered and broken, tossed and wayward of their original locations, and the stone of the building's foundation, its walls and glass windows, were all smeared and splattered with excessive quantities of blood, derived from bifercated, decapitated, and mutilated sets of corpses that were strewn throughout this pious of places. The closer to the dias, the more gore, brutish and morbid, and blood seemed evident. The doors were closed, sealed shut with a transcendant and horrible power that would not open and allowed none entry -that is, for a few days, until just several moments ago. The double doors swung eerily ajar to reveal the unmoving form of the towering hellspawn. Here, for its historical and religious significance, Xersom and Sacrilus were a thin boundry from one another on the planes of which he simultaneously existed -so what X was, in that Cathedral, was not the hobble-gait'd and masked man usually presented. He most certainly was not his titanic saurian form -of which was so tremendous in size that it could use a clawed hand to break parapets and towers from castles. No, the towering entity that stood before the shrine to the higher gods was much more his Sacrilus counterpart; he was clad in armor that was deep black, resonated a sulfur scent, and carved with a litany of infernal and blasphemic lines both glowing red and in some demonic tongue, the platemail having been forged in the pits of Hell. A black cloth shrouded his head and face like a mask, but was layered with a helm that was fashioned to depict some demonic face in a perpetual snarl. Dark magic, to those empathetic of senses, was overwhelming and incredible in this creature -those that could see ghosts would know that hundreds upon thousands surrounded him and stretched on for miles and miles.

Ynhaldei was inside the Cathedral... somewhat. She has been in Cenril for weeks now, scouting and taking down notes on important details from time to time, but today she is just bored, staring down to the mayhem that currently happens down there. She is on the higher ground. A hallways near the ceiling to where the priests walks to and fro to do their daily lives. They mostly ignore her... Mostly. She has been asked multiple times to leave, they tried calling guards on her but the city is just in too much mess for the authorities to bother. Glancing at the doorway as someone enters, she simply rest her arm against the railing, pressing her cheek against it, clearly bored. "This is not exactly what I was expecting." She doesn't mind being detected, she is in no mood to harming anyone today, hiding would be too tedious as well.

Trent didn't know what he expected to find in the cathedral. Much of Cenril had been decimated by the lycan attack- would they go so far as to desecrate a holy landmark? Trent was dressed in his usual shades of black, complete with the leather hood of his coat drawn up and over golden strands of hair. He walked with a limp this day, a leftover reminder of his last attempt to jump into matters that did not concern him. It was first a strange feeling creeping throughout his soul that caused the amnesiac to halt his forward step, that cold steel blue gaze peering out from beneath the veil of shadow concealing his feature. The metallic digits of his left hand begin to stir; And seemingly as if interacting together, the strange scripture lining the gauntlet began to pulsate with an azure aura, much like the pendant around the man's neck. What was going on? It was upon Xersom's form did he finally take notice, assume rather, of where this disturbance may have been coming from. Head to toe the dark creature was examined, Trent doing as he had always done, seeking any sort of familiarity with the other.

Xersom knew that Ynhaldei was present, just as he knew that Trent was approaching; it neither meant he was aware of who either were nor that he knew their motives, but those simple concepts weren't so much of importance to the dark being as was his current positioning. The Cathedral was devoid of life aside from Sacrilus, and apparently Ynhaldei, the exemption being Trent's entrance and subsequent scrutiny; the demon-armored man, who was a foot above six and the proportions that a heavily-plated figure would require in terms of muscle and mass, had his back toward the doorway of the building and his front facing the dias that held the effigy toward the three divine beings. The general was a juxtaposition here, far too appropriate for the destruction and death that he caused within the confines of the walls of the Cathedral, but a stark contrast to the eternally-blessed aura of the torch and its symbolism. In one hand held the hilt of a blade, of which was curved and made of density and blackness so deep that it even seemed to suck in the very light around it to eternally become lost into its depths, like some sort of reverse glow. Slowly his gaze was implicated to turn by the movement of his helmeted head, the eyes and mouth that would've been revealed by the demon face of his helmet shrouded in black of the cloth that tightly coveted his skull; it moved to imply his stare upward toward Ynhaldei first, then to the side to presumably peer out of his periphery and over his shoulder toward Trent. Finally his voice came forth; it resonated with a deep sinister edge, but was both soothing and intoxicating all the same -like poisoned wine, or a madman's lullaby, "Where does your allegiances lie?" It was asked of both interlopers, made apparent by the phrasing.

Ynhaldei felt the difference. She has been watching this scene develop from the start but never bother speaking regards to it. She is tired and bored, she simply wanted to rest and the Cathedral is the only place she knew where she can find rest.. Well there is the Library but she has been there too often, she wanted a change of scenery. She has been an atheist all her life, even though there are irrefutable evidences that proves their existence, she never bothered nor cared to worship any of them. Yawning alittle as she replied. "My allegiance is to my own. I'm not here for anything Mr. BigHugeMcLarge. I would probably even allow you to kill me if you wish. I'm just... pondering, wondering if the choices was worth it. I mean... look at this city." she exhales loudly, clearly annoyed of something. But she did say something about the city. One of the people who caused its destruction? Perhaps, but now she is worried of something else. Shaking her head as she looked to the other one. "I kinda know that other guy.. never caught his name though."

Trent was perplexed. Who was this man? What was it that held his attention so firm? What did his words mean, exactly? It was here that the hand began to grow quite restless, each and every finger beginning to twitch erratically as the pulsating of amulet and scripture began to beat harder every every passing second. "Allegiances? To whom do you refer?" Trent finally asked, still trying to descipher every possible detail of the other. On the off glance at the temple beyond the armored creature, Trent finally spotted Ynhaldei. She was there, wasn't she? The night of the raid? He had half a mind to draw his weapon and go after the woman- she may have answers to the whereabouts of that damned warlock. Somehow, deep down, he knew in this instance, the idea would most likely not end well for him. Injury after all. Politely he nodded to the woman before turning his attention back to the one in between them. "I take part in no side, sir. I fight for my own cause, and that cause is one of reclamation." That metal gauntlet begins to lift on a subconscious level, the sleeve sliding back slightly to reveal a few of the still undeciphered symbols. It was when Trent looked to his hand that he would notice something peculiar; At least two of the symbols matched those written upon Xersom's armor. Trent's features began to pale and he would take three steps closer to the dark man to get a better look.

Xersom turned his 'stare' away from Trent and up toward Ynhaldei, whose position above the demonic general was amusing when it wasn't tiresome -he had half of a mind to tear her from her perch and crash her small frame brutally into the floor, but he restrained himself; such petty displays weren't exactly him. No, he could slaughter both of them now before they could lift a finger to defend against him, but the demonic general of all of Arrecation's armies did not desire to do so, and it was made apparent because if otherwise, he would've already mutilated both. That, however, might not really comfort the otherwise evil and darkness that intrinsically coincided with the towering and armored form of the ancient being at a nearly incomprehensible magnitude and depth -he was, in a sense, one of the most powerful things to walk Lithrydel. The plants that were potted along the walls and perimeter of the Cathedral proper have since died in his presence, though unlike natural earth, the stone beneath his feet didn't necessarily decay. "Allow? Best choose your words carefully, young one-" because everything was young to the ancient that stood against Sven, Hind, and Lore before they ascended, "These priests did not allow me to enter, they did not allow me to kill them. But I had anyway; just as I would were I to desire to end you. This city. What has happened to it? I must purge it." Trent's words garnered the attention of the towering male, who turned his cloth-covered and helmeted head before the rest of his body in order to twist his positioning around and face the amnesiac proper. Despite his eyes and face being covered, it wasn't particularly a secret that his stare burned in on Trent, and more specifically, his guantlet. "If you know my native tongue, I'd advise you not to read my armor, 'lest you desire demons in your head." After all, the reading aloud of those words have been known to cause demonic possession in people, among other terrible scenarios. "So among me are two who hold their allegiences to themselves. And why is it I should believe either of you and not slaughter you just in case you are underlings of that amusing little creature, Desparrow?"

Ynhaldei exhaled loudly and simply raised her hand a couple of times, as if to dust off something, "Yea.. Yea.. whatever." Clearly unimpressed. She has been toe to toe with powerful beings before and survived through all of them. Survived. It is possible that she never won any of these scenarios but she'll never tell. "A man does what he can because he wants it." still referring to the one where she asked the man if he wants to kill her. She turned to Trent and said, "You really look familiar.. somehow." she turned back to the evil one and said, "I am employed under Mr. Desparrow." She did not even hesitated. She did not care or need to lie. Clearly not even bothered if the man would kill her right here and there. "Allegiance is not the word I would use.. Employed. I am a for myself. I work for my own reasons to achieve a goal. It doesn't matter who gets trampled or who I work with and that is all there is. Also I can't be bothered with petty loyalty as they don't really fit in the luggage."

Trent immediately ceased any sort of movement with Xersom's warning of the scripture. The hood atop his head was lowered, features now fully into view. Xersom may find the face familiar in some way or another, yet not able to fully recognize from exactly where- Or perhaps.. when. "Your tongue? You know know of this scripture then? The right of his hands revealed the rest of that polished metal gauntlet, arm now bent at a ninety-degree angle to reveal the rest of the lettering. Question turned to accusation. "Who are you? What is this? Did you do this to me?!" The amulet around Trent's neck pulsated again, the bright azure hue beginning fade to an ashen color. Something that hadn't happened before. To Ynhaldei he would snap his attention, her voice sealing that familiar memory. "We crossed paths briefly. I'm looking for your friends." he stated in a cold manner. It finally made sense when Xersom mentioned Desparrow's name. He grew angry, evidence in his tone. "Underling? Preposterous! If I see that rotten bastard I will kill him! It is because of him I had lost my home and job. It is because of him so many innocent died. If I have it my way, he will be dead by the end of the week." Big talk from an injured nobody.

Xersom , on the other hand, was neither injured nor nobody; there weren't many, if any, left walking the world that had as much power as the demon general. So as Ynhaldei dismissed him with disrespect coupled with her immediate acknowledgement of working with a 'Mr' Desparrow, the ancient being's armor clicked with the cadence according to the ascension of his arm and gauntlet'd hand, which clenched. Upon such, Ynhaldei would feel her insides becoming crushed, as if an intense and overwhelming pressure were bearing upon her from all directions and angles. Trent meanwhile, earned the brunt of his stare while he did this, or at least the implication thereof; his eyes were covered by that screen of black cloth and surrounded by the eyeholes of the demonic helm. "I am Sacrilus. I am the Face of the Damned." It could've been likely that the towering and armored male could find the face of Trent familiar -he had lived for such a span that he counted his age in eras rather than decades or centuries. His gauntleted hand would drop, Xersom's that was, with the sudden and invisible pull of an intense velocity on the form of Ynhaldei, which, while no longer seeking to crush her insides now sought to brutally smash her through any obstacle and pin her to the floor with unyielding pressure, like a boulder holding her down. Still, however, his attention was upon Trent. "I know some of it," the intoxicating yet dangerous voice boomed forth with the underlied echo of a deep rumble, "It is interesting. Do you know what it says? And hold your tongue on your accusations -I lead the dark lord's armies. Why would I do such and single you out?"

Ynhaldei frowns a little as she replied. "Not my friends." she commented blandly, she doesn't care of the others in the so called 'group' but she was hoping to get payed for her efforts. Clearly not going to happen any time soon due to complications within the leadership structure. She sighs and felt the weight on her. It is a perk of being first to a place. Home Field Advantage so to speak. Ynhaldei is a spatiomancer and specializes on control of space. To have space, one must have a territory, just like this city, or this very cathedral. She has been living draw lines all over the city, dropping transparent oils or ink wherever she walks, drawing her circles of power to claim territory and to be activated when needed. As soon as the spell was onto her, she felt the weight and power within her core. Something that she has experienced at some form or another, living in harsh conditions tend to become prey to different beasts and predators. As soon as she felt that she was in trouble, a spell that was written on the ground glowed to in an attempt to relieve her of such. It worked... but barely, Xersom's powers has flooded the church that her runes are barely working. She frowns but atleast she wasn't screaming or flailing in pain. Exhaling loudly as she try to remain as quiet as she can when she was suddenly pulled off her seat, onto the man's hand. She hesitated at first, wanting to see what will happen but she went for another circle that covers the floor of the church. The air suddenly become dense, maybe just for her perspective but somehow she knew that Xersom will be aware to it as well. He could probably move around through brute force alone while she struggles to dodge his hand. If she succeeded, she'll evade his hand completely and stand next to him, facing away as she said. "You know it is a bit rude to harm a lady without taking her out for a date first."

Trent took a step backward as he watched the back and forth between the man of darkness and the strange woman from a few nights prior. It was clear that Xersom was not the type you would be on the bad side of. Without Warning, Trent let loose a painful yell, the right hand lifted to clutch at the side of his head as that name was spoken. Something about it had caused some sort of a bomb to go off in Trent's mind, flashes of things long past echoing through his memories. Nothing, of course, would be very recognizeable. Sacrilus. Where had that name come from? Why did he know it?" Wincing through the pain, Trent looked upon the archaic creature and nodded; Those further words of warning heeded and respected. "I- I do not know. I don't know why anyone would do anything in this land. I do not remember my life before I had awoken upon Milous." THe question was met with a survey of his own gauntlet, matching up letting to those that litter the man's armor. "I do not. I have been seeking a translator. I want to know what this... thing is." Is was as if the metal adorned hand understood Trent, for the fingers began to curl into a first in response.

Xersom did not turn his face -or, more specifically, his head as it was covered both in a layer of black cloth and a demonic-carved face helmet- toward Ynhaldei as she evaded the destruction his attack had intended to inflict, but ultimately seemed unfazed by her own density of the air, as well as her words. Both his own attack and that of the thickness of the air seemed entirely inconsequential to the ancient being, a being that had fought against the gods and had since only been defeated by an immortal -a being that the dread lords both learned from and apprenticed under, who taught them how to use Arrecation's power to ascend into godhood. "Rethink your words, and your employer," he told her, "You no longer will work with 'Mr.' Desparrow, or I will do far worse than kill you." But Trent had his attention then, for they presented a distraction that was unique and actually entertaining -a brief respite to the little jabs at Desparrow. He didn't seem to care that the amnesiac had difficulty -that he felt pain; the man was curious and had the ancient's scrutiny. Two armored fingers came up then, to move toward the sentient metal and point out those demonic runes. "'What' might be the wrong question. These two are binding. They bind you to the gauntlet... and vice versa." The fingers moved then, toward the elbow toward a few more of the runes, "Tell me, have you ever died? This one here is a spell for immortality -but it isn't a spell for your benefit. It is written as a curse, so it makes me wonder if your death causes you to awaken upon Milous, as you say, though such could be very unrelated." His hand returned as he stared down at the man, "It is curious, though, that it has a binding spell -the kind that goes both ways. Your gauntlet cannot be worn upon another -I cannot tell if it is for possessiveness, like mine, or as a measure of warding."

Ynhaldei only used the dense air for her to actually move around and alter her trajectory, it wasn't for any sort of attack against the man. "I don't need to. The plan has already been laid. I am now wondering what to do with my time.. There is nothing for me to gain in this venture of mine which annoys me alittle." She runs her fingers against her hair and said, "My death would not satisfy anyone, same with my suffering. A bummer really. I traded a favor for a favor. Thing is, the one I wanted got resolved on its own. Now I am stuck between you two. A man who I think is powerful enough but not gentleman enough to tell me his name properly or Mr. Desparrow that by the minute seems to dwindle his uses to me... then again I can't really run for either of you. How about make me an offer?" She has her own devious plans, but it doesn't really matter now. If she dies then she dies. She doesn't really care right now.

Trent felt very sick. Binding? Curse? Immortality? He always dreamed that when he had some sort of answer, a major sense of relief would come with it. Yet, this would not be the case it seems. "Died? i don't... I don't..." he struggled with the thoughts. "No I don't think so. Not to my knowledge. " Like a bolt of lightning his mind struck, thinking back to that strange revelation given unto him by the woman he once knew as Emilia. She had seen a tombstone with his name hadn't she? He struggled to push that idea back down. Deep down to where he would not dwell upon it for some time, maintaining his denial. "No, I could not have. my heart beats strong. Flesh warm. Blood flows with wound. Those ressurected from death... those that I have witnessed, do not bare normality." He glanced to Ynhaldei as she made demands of an offer from the strange entity. This one was quite out for herself it seemed. Trent shook his head in disgust, cool gaze falling upon Sacrilus' own gauntlets, with curious survey. Did they share some sort of connection? Was there a link? "Warding from what? Possessiveness? I do not follow. What script is this, Sacrilus? What is its origin?"

Xersom scruntized the man for a moment, of which he garnered the simplicity of the statement -"You've lost memories, like my wife Emilia. A shame," that dark and sinister, yet soothing voice gave, before his head turned. It turned to implicate his gaze on Ynhaldei, before abruptly, and with a violent speed, his hand brought his sword upward, and thrust toward her back, aiming to pierce her chest and heart with the weapon before it'd begin consuming her into the darkness that was its make; he'd see exactly how much she cared if she died. "I do not require you; I am Sacrilus, the Face of the Damned. Why should I make an offer?" The darkness exhuded from the man in resonated echoes and horrible, terrible emanation -it was simply wicked, inside and out. Trent carved his attention and brought that helmeted and masked face about in order to scrutinize him, or implicate such, considering his face and eyes were veiled. "Calm yourself. It is demonic -derived from the language of the Dark Immortals, and not well known outside demon-worshippers or demons themselves. But warding, yes. Warding from leaving you- these sigils bind it to you and you to it. But why would you be bound to it? It begs the question: What is it that might happen if another wears it? Are you punished -or are you it's guardian?"

Ynhaldei expected this. The very reason why she did not move from where she stand. Conserving as much magic as she can. How much would it take to atleast make a point with this man? He appears dense... too dense for even a proper conversation.Typical for beings like such, belittles the ones beneath them. She sighs and exhales as her mana has been seeping out of her form into the surrounding land. It is too thin to be ever felt by anyone as she is trying to spread it at much as she can. A block? a couple? How about enough mana to power a city? She channels her magic into the very air as it floats away from her, going farther and farther to the point it was internally wounding her. She didn't mind. She didn't care. But as soon as the man moves a massive circle around Cenril dimly glowed. Unnoticed by most as the city is still in ruins. But as soon as it activates, it glowed stronger and stronger till high nets were created. They are filters, filtering out the very air off its mana particles. The normal air easily flows off while the capture mana remains within the region. As the man finally drew his weapon, the mana net started to shrink at a rapid pace, extracting mana from the very air as it dragged along the mana into the cathedral. The moment the tip of his sword reached her clothes, windows suddenly shatters as the spatiomancer forces the circle to shrink into her location. Flooding her body with too much mana to the point that she can't breathe. She placed her hand upon her mouth and casted a minor spell of air, with the mana filled territory present, the spell becomes much more powerful. Filling her lungs instantly with air, her body soon follows suit, oxygenating her blood and tissues to replenish her physical strength and energy. The blade finally struck, digging into her skin and flesh for atleast a few centimeters before she was finally able to move. Her forcefully invigorated body moves quickly as she turned around and strike the flat surface of the sword with her palm. As darkness filled her mind, she didn't seem fazed with all the visions and screams in her head. "You cannot turn an insane person into more insane Mister." though it is filling her thoughts too much, unable to focus but enough to counter attacks.

Trent 's brain once more bombarded him with nonsensical imagery when Sacrilus proclaims his name to the daring woman. This time he would bare through the pain as he tried to make sense of the dark entity's words. "Emilia is your wife?.." he asked, seemingly taken by surprise with the news. Things seem to be getting more and more complex with every revelation brought to light- There is no way that this is all coincidence. Not any more. "I.. I don't know." he finally answered Sacrilus' latter questions. "Sometimes I think the damn thing watches over me, rather than I, it. Althought it causes trouble no matter where I rest, it is the first thing to rise to my defense. I just-" it was here that words would ebb back, his head beginning to grow dizzy as all of this information came at him from all sides. Demons. Ancient beings. Dark lords. Immortals. Face of the Damned. Curse. Binding. It was all too much. Or was it? Perhaps it was the darkness emanating from Sacrilus. Perhaps it was the large surge of magic in use by Ynhaldei. Whatever it was, it weakened Trent greatly. Even that amulet began to grow black after some time. Without warning, Trent vomited upon the floor at his feet; the substance black and putrid. "I apologize. i do not know what has come over me I... I need rest." Weak, having trouble standing, Trent began to backpeddle, unadorned hand taking quickly to grasp at the wall. "I ...must speak with you again.. please.. soon." Without giving the other time to respond, Trent began to stumble his way out of the cathedral. He needed aide.

Trent had to leave here. If Xersom or Ynhaldei have the rest of this RP, feel free to add it.