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 Posted: Sat Feb 06, 2010 4:42 pm
Whatever brought you here... whatever reason... whatever fate... your aim is ultimately power now.
Power unfathomed by any man or mortal...
The power to do.
Power that is feared...
Power to Redeem...
Power to spare.
Whatever your reason...
...Your destiny has lead you out from the void, into the Dark Lands.
You've hear far and wide of the Prince of Thorns,
now leader of the Legendary Knights of Internal Darkness.
If you are to get anywhere, you must seek him out first...
...and swear your eternal loyalty.
...to swear it in blood.
Your path has lead you here, to the
Dead Bulwark.
An outport into the Dark Lands onto which is practically teetering onto the edge of a cliff.
As you step in, you are Greeted by what seems to be a walking pile of bones in a black robe...
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Posted: Sat Feb 06, 2010 5:05 pm
The Dark Knight's Quest  "...Greetings, Brave one!" The old and eccentric voice says almost cynically. His face is hidden by a mask, but he is certainly glad to see you...
At least, that is how it seems.
"...I am the Plague Doctor Grimesorrow... and I will be your bridge into the world of the Dark Knights!"
Clearly excited, the Plague Doctor shivers, making his robes shake as he turns and motions you to follow.
"You seek the Lord of Darkness..."
Almost surprised, you attempt to speak as to how he garnered this information, but you are swiftly interrupted.
"...I know, for all who come here seek my Lord!"
Grimesorrow exclaims rather loudly, followed by a laugh that fills the air with something similar to the cries of a raven, and directly after that a horrible hacking and coughing.
Once he is done with his fit, he continues.
"I will send you to Sleepyknell, where you will find a portal directly to the Dread Dialect!"
The Plaguedoctor leads you out to the ledge of the Dead Bulwark, where the Citadel stands atop a mountain of vines and thorns, the very visage of it exuding dark omens and power.
"Impressive, No?"
The Grimesorrow said with a small cackling.
"You will find him there, but first..."
A long, fleshy and bony finger points directly at your face as the Plaguedoctor spins rapidly to turn to you.
"Bring Me a Dreadstone!"
Grimesorrow motions to a series of black wyrms that are stationed out to the far right of the Bulwark.
"Ride down onto the base of this cliff and hunt down a Deathlord!"
The Plaguedoctor pulls out his whole, practically rotting hand, and an illusion of the beast appears in his palm.
The figure before you is a horrid abomination... a six armed torso with protruding blades everywhere.
It's faceless head droops directly on it's chest.
"...only by slaying and ripping out the beasts heart may you aquire the dreadstone within... but be wary... These beasts are a challenge... and the rocky terrain and jagged rocks make it ever the more difficult."
Grimesorrow turns back to the enterance of the Dead Bulwark, ready to await another on the path of Power.
He stops halfway, wondering what you are dong still staring at him.
"Well? Go! Go! No time to waste!"
It would seem your journey begins... here.
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Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2010 11:53 am
Odd tasks such as this was new to her. Just months ago, she had been an entirely different sort of creature and had an entirely different purpose. Just months ago, she had been allowed to recline on silk cushions and seats stained brilliantly with rose pigment and faced with human hair lace. She had worn magnificent dresses that barely covered and looked pretty for her Master.
However, her Master was no longer he.
The armored dress that the Dollmaker made for her suited her just a well as the gowns of fine, silver chains and sparkling jewels that could hardly be called clothing. No, it suited her better. She appeared to be unarmed which may or may not have caught the Doctor's attention. What did he think of her anyway? He should know that she was a wraith but the fact she had consciousness and personal thought was something almost all wraiths lacked. Only the highest class of Servants possessed such a gift... and such a curse.
After all... she was aware of who she was. She knew, unlike her mindless similars, that she was to be a slave until the day she died. Such was the price she paid to continue existing, to set her wrathful, lustful soul to proper rest.
She reached her carriage-to-be with no sign on her face. She looked too timid and skinny to be much of a fighter. Even now, as a tailored combatant, she still retained most of her pleasure-toy traits. The Dollmaker had wanted to make her both beautiful and deadly... and she was both. However, as a side effect, she often looked sickly as well -- like right then.
It's been over ten years and she still hadn't gotten over how she now occasionally lacked a shadow. Whenever she looked down and failed to see a patch of darkness beneath her feet, she heart did a flip-flop. Somethings just never became habit. Placing a gentle hand on the creature's back, she vaulted herself onto its spine, poised in a one-kneed crouch that would allow her to take swift action if needed. Out of all the useful maneuvers in combat, the one impossible for her was flight. A ride was always, always appreciated.
Face it, she's a heavy girl. Though thin and dainty, her bones of mythril alloys and compacted muscled under reinforced skin brought her up to around 200 lbs, just by herself. In addition, her robes weighed anywhere between 160 to 200 lbs. The creature beneath her must have felt misled for it gave a grunt-like groan as it felt her weight. It could very well carry her with ease, but certainly, he was not expecting such a hefty guest to look a nymph.
The Plaguedoctor was not her Master. She was not obligated to obey... but he had something that she wanted. Normally, she made it a commitment to not obey anyone save the Dollmaker and her Master unless if she were told by either of them to obey anyone else. Her feet felt solid on the animal as it moved. It was rare for an animal to accept her well -- she spooked them all save the carrion feeders. There was an aura of death around her body that only animals could smell.
On a tangent, there WAS one time when she spooked a few werewolf children. She had been on a trip with her former Master and had taken a bath. While she waited for her Master's return from his hunting party, she had fallen asleep and had been, consequently, mistaken for a corpse by a pair of rascally, thieving children. The looks on their faces as she sat up was so priceless that she still retained a crystal-clear image even till this day.
They gained speed. Her weight and natural balance required little attention on her part for staying on... or steering. Was this beast a veteran? He seemed to know the way without her lack of expertise in directional command. It made her feel just a tad more secure that it won't wander and stray into holes and nooses. Her hand went to the left side of her head were the insignia of Asmodeus' Fang glittered, an imperial yet grim crown. Such was the sign for a Servant of Wrath of the highest order. Asmodeus of Wrath himself would patron her... an honor if all else. It grew warm beneath her hand as the bloody garnet seared at her skin.
"Aesmadaeva Crusvard, vena ae mer."
In her hand appeared the great scissors, washed in an nontarnishable gold and decorated in the same bloody garnets that covered the girl's body. Her long silver hair, flung against its surface by the wind, slid off without leaving as much as a whisper on the glossiness. They were called Asmodeus' Fangs by those who knew it. The original name, Aesmadaeva Crusvard, meant 'Asmodeus' Crossblades'... or his scissors... but that was not easily memorable to the vernacular. People liked to think of Asmodeus as a great and devilish snake. Thus the crossblades became his 'fangs'.
She separated the left blade from the right and held them in resting stance. They will have arrived soon.
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Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2010 3:38 pm
There were parts in this lands that even the Wyrms of the Dark Lord dared not tread... and as the very skies became more jagged with the sharpness of the spiraling rocks, the beast had to land in the clearing of it's origin.
Deep flapping wings rose dust and bone over from where it landed, and all was still at the bottom of the cliff that overlooked the Dead Bulwark.
Here the Wyrm would wait loyally, until Nia's return.
The Land was dead still... a joke the good Doctor liked to say much and often.
Not a soul seemed to stir around the rocks, not a wind dare to howl.
It was a wonder how anything could live or survive in these dread and barren conditions.
The dangerous and jagged path opened up by foot ahead of the young knight... it would seem if she wanted to accomplish anything, she would have to venture forth...
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Posted: Tue Feb 09, 2010 3:23 am
"If only people knew such blind fidelity."
Her lips, silent, mouthed the syllables without hesitation. She jumped from her position, the scissors acting as an object of balance, and was gone from sight almost as soon as the soles of her sandals hit the dust, leaving nothing but a gentle pat on her steed's scales. It was not a large feat to vanish between so much rock.
The fragments of stones crunched beneath her. Stealth was probably not her forte, not with how insanely heavy she was. Some ledges would not be able to hold her weight so she watched her steps with great caution. The pretty reds, golds, and blacks of her armored dress turned her into a little, red butterfly, playing in the crags, flitting from this wildflower to the next. It was a sweet, innocent image that only played the flytrap for the eyes... for if any bird sought out the butterfly, it would find a dangerous, fanged beast.
She could feel the slight change in wind and the unnatural howl that whipped within air. Her skin tingled and burned just feeling it. Wind was not her element but the Wind was a gossiper. It would tell anyone and everyone what it knew and it whipped about where ever and whenever, however it pleased. A careful new course was set with a twenty degree deviation to the right. She pulled down the hidden zipper within the folds of her skirts, splitting the fabric down the front to where she could hitch it out of her legs' way. Bandages covered her right thigh, hiding the sprawling scarification of the Dollmaker's signature. Underneath the linen strips were the words 'Haides Papilla' written in scarred tissue. A magical inscription. As a piece of art, she was titled 'Hades' Butterfly.'
Lace-up sandals sporting crossing, black ribbons bound to her feet and calves, contrasting against skin so pale-white that it looked ill and green in certain light. Each time she crossed a patch of light, she glowed where light touched her. She... really needed a tan. Badly. Occasional gusts would sweep sand into her face and threaten to scratch her skin. Silly wind... that was like using a piece of butter to scratch glass.
Pre-installed instincts nudged her away from the source of danger. She went directly against her feelings and stuck her face into the source's direction. She had to be close at this point. The hairs on her neck prickled as all parts of her grew alert. Asmodeus' Fangs seethed in anticipation.
Aesmadaeva Crusvard... the Wrath-Demon's Crossblades. It was a weapon most fitting of her. After all, it was created specifically for her. She had often heard the Dollmaker brag to himself in his work room about its magnificence. "One vibration from it and enemies fall from fear alone! Asmodeus of Wrath sees everything!" Truly she was fortunate to be given it. At five feet eight, the weapon was a mere three inches shorter than herself. There was something that complimented between them. Was it because they shared a cold, dormant rage that could only be witness through battle? They were both souls trapped within an extended life. The Crusvard was her only freedom.
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Posted: Tue Feb 09, 2010 3:23 pm
The rocks around Nia shook but for a moment... and were still.
The earth here quaked... every so often, a sign that the world around was crumbling. A sign that the land itself, was afraid.
It came in two sounds... at first, a chittering chirp, much like a very, very large cricket.
Then...
The sound of a woman's last cries... louder than a banshees wail...
It was extremely hard to tell where the sounds came from...the reverberations of it bounced off the spires of rock and canyon... whatever made such the horrid noise could have been close, of far off.
Whatever was out there, it wouldn't be long till Nia found it...
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Posted: Tue Feb 09, 2010 11:43 pm
Friendly with the telltale wind, her long hair whipped away, a flash of grey lightning. Her feet reacted in time and her head ducked low. Above her swept a blade and below her sprang her powerful legs. Into a roll she went, neck against gravel and coiled into a spring until proper timing brought her entire body up, soaring in an arc with her feet leading the way. They kicked away two oncoming blades from above en route her parabolic journey. The blades of her scissors separated during the trip and she saw in its reflection her quarry's faceless countenance.
It seemed to have enjoyed a tea-time snack before its arrival here as blood and fragments of guts clung to its torso. Its entire body reeked of half-digested pulp from his meal's last meal. Her nose wrinkled. She would never completely get used to the smell of the battlefield, she felt. The odor was nothing like the delicate, mild, fruit-garnished perfumes of her last life... and no more like the sweet, wholesome musk of freshly harvested wheat and corn.
Her arms tilted to allow the giant swords space and her body safety area. Sinister, the left blade rose, just in time to catch hold of a clamorous blow down. Her opponent was about two feet taller than her 5-feet-8-inches. Was he a 'small' one? The impact was enough to made her bones vibrate and push her back six inches. Dexter, the right blade, swept a crescent pass backhand at its abdomen in immediate succesion of her block and forced a retreat out of her enemy. It noted to her that this creature at least knew when it was going to get attacked. It was crouching down now, seemingly waiting for her to make a move first, playing the defensive game. All the more caution -- for it was not some mindless idiot. It understood nuances of one-on-one strategy.
They circled. The terrain was so uneven that a single misstep meant a fatal mistake. She could not look down for fear of losing the enemy though that meant she could only feel with her feet the foundation on which rested her fate. It was a fast and strong opponent. Few could knock her back when she was wearing her heavy armor-dress in all its complete, cumbersome glory. That beast knocked her back several inches in that quick engagement. Had she not forced it to disengage, it may have found her limit breaking point and overpowered her when she chanced to breathe.
Her feet acted faster, swerving behind a large boulder as she changed directions from a right-side sweep to a higher vantage point. She was in the air, Sinister at a back-handed guard over her chest, Dexter spinning in a deadly circle for his head. Moments later, the creature was gone. A whirr of red silk seemed to say she read her instincts correctly. A 180 degree turn brought both swords in engagement to a heavier, more powerful close-range combatant. Already the ground was breaking at her heels, the dried mud and dirt cracking as all 300-plus pounds of her sank deeper into the desolate earth.
Placing the bulk of the weight into the small of her back and her upper thighs allowed her greater endurance within her shoulders and arms to bear the burden. It was not willing to disengage with her this time. Tensing her abdominal muscles, she forced herself into a rapid spin and accelerated almost painfully, causing the two pieces of her Crusvard to slip against her opponent's blades once, the continued spin parrying on the next 360 degrees. She didn't wait for it to finish its quick retreat before continuing a lunge at the end of her spin. This sort of beast was only a lowlife -- not a callenge at all for someone like her. It shouldn't take much longer.
Two more engagements followed, each giving her a clearer taste of the strength of her foe. Each time, she found way to disengage and find new position. It should have been decided far quicker by an Exquisite-class Servant of Wrath. What held her back was the possibility of being hit. The Dollmaker trusted her to take good care of her face, which was the one part of her that was unchanged since her human days. Very rarely do any servants retain the features of a base. Her face was what made her look the most human. Whenever a blade would come too close to her face, she made certain that it would not scratch even the outermost skin of her cheeks nor the tippy-tips of her eyelashes.
However, even she was growing tired of such childish games. What was a power if not used? Trump card it may be, but this monster was going DOWN. Dead men tell no tales and there weren't any other people around to dislose information. They were once again circling. It stood at a higher vantage point and looked down on her, hungering obviously for her undead flesh -- pretty, yes; zombie, yes -- and the satisfaction of her guts spilling all over the ground. He was searching for a good opening to catch his prey. She was scheming... scheming... scheming. Bzzzz...
Her knees suddenly buckled beneath her and gave away to cold sand and weeds. Barely had she began to fall did the beast make its move. It was lunging, full-frontal, crashing down with what sounded like the shell of a wind's howl, so empty...
And so the story ended there, a tale shorter than the space between start and end... a happening that died before even the prologue... a song that ended abruptly mid-prelude.
Her swords hummed from each respective hand. They were visibly blurring so the edges of the blades were impossible to see. Around her lay the remnants of what was once a towering terror... now a pile of black blood and bile. Slow rising brought her back to standing and she flung either blade through the air, splattering the blood onto boulders and painting lichen with the color of macabre. It had been a quick and convincing ruse to accelerate the vibrations in her weapons moments before she displayed a false vulnerability and lured it into an attack. Its blades shattered around them instantaneously upon impact. Its meat shredded where she tore through it.
Both fangs of Asmodeus returned to the insignia upon her hair. She did hate to get her hands dirty, but the dreadstone must be collected if she wanted to complete her journey. She hadn't even the chance to wipe a stray fleck of black blood off her pretty, white face. Just as well... it appeared an ink splatter on a page -- an accident. Servants should not out-succeed their supriors. She, who left without nary a marr, would do well to look like an accident.
Her bloody hand left the recesses of the creature's chest cavity and drew out the bloody prize. She regarded the object curiously. Was there some significance to such a thing? Was it useful? In the ways of such things, she was very under-educated. Well, it couldn't be helped. She grew tired of the rancid odor and promptly set out on the return trip, silently lamenting the splattered state of her clothes... and here she wanted to look good before her new Master.
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Posted: Thu Feb 11, 2010 3:23 pm
...and so the beast had been felled, and the beautiful blood spattered girl rose back to the Bulwark on the flight of the Wyrm.
Standing to greet her at the very ledge, Dr. Grimesorrow quivered in anticipation.
"Ah! Excellent! Excellent! For a moment, I thought you would not return alive! But you've proven me wrong! Wrong!"
The good Doctor cackled into the air, followed by a wheezing cough.
As the Wyrm lowered itself onto the Bulwark, Dr. Grimesorrow was only too eager to take the heart... and before you knew it, the bloody thing was gone from your person.
The shriveling mass behind the mask and robe seemed to almost float off as he walked into a nearby black tent.
The air was silent for but a moment... and several flashes of green light followed by several hissings and bangs ruined that quickly.
Steam rose out of the tent as the last of the green flashed ended, and the hack-coughing and cackling of Dr. Grimesorrow once again pleased the senses as he came out of the practically smoking tent.
"Here we are..."
Grimesorrow pulled out in front of you a simple looking green stone, etched with black cut markings.
The product of a Deathlord's heart, the dreadstone.
"Take it, my dear... channeling it's energies will lead you straight to Sleepyknell, which will lead you closer to your goal... and closer to my Master... keep the stone close, you may just need it for other occasions..."
Nodding vigorously, Doctor Grimesorrow turned cackling into the air, leaving you to harness the stone and be transported to the shadow of the Dread Dialect...
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Posted: Thu Feb 11, 2010 5:13 pm
Looking down at her bloody hands in the Doctor's quick absence, she felt that today could become rather bad. Perhaps it came from being a modified Servant of Lust -- that need to stay clean and presentable, to be beautiful and pleasurable, to be touchable and enjoyable... it would always stay a part of her and irk her in the back of her head... especially the blood stuck beneath her nails.
The Doctor returned with a stone and some instructions. It seemed silly to stay any further -- not that she should ever show her opinions as a mere Servant -- so she took it and promptly left for her next location.
<>
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Posted: Tue Feb 16, 2010 7:51 pm
Chaldrion chuckled as the Doctor concluded his lecture. Here was another place of opportunity to spread the works of Lord Nurgle. Drawing his round shield from his back, he patted his Daemonic steed on the side; a monstrous horse-beast with palid, rotting skin and an excess of eyes. The steed's name was Kur'grohm, a gift, like many others, from his god Nurgle. Like Chaldrion, the beast bore heavy, corroded armor and had razor-sharp teeth that could tear through the thickest bone. Kur'grohm's eyes turned toward his master and snorted, impatient for the lust of slaughter.
Chaldrion hoisted himself onto Kur'grohm's back, gripping the reins with his shield hand, his other grasping his deadly Filth Mace. He kicked his heels at Kur'grohm's sides and they took off in a gallop down the top of the cliff. He twitched with excitment and his mouth curved into a broad grin behind his helmet. Grandfather Nurgle would be well pleased.
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Posted: Tue Feb 16, 2010 11:57 pm
The rocks around Chaldrion shook but for a moment... and were still.
The earth here quaked... every so often, a sign that the world around was crumbling. A sign that the land itself, was afraid.
It came in two sounds... at first, a chittering chirp, much like a very, very large cricket.
Then...
The coldest, haunting wail. It was like the sound of wind at night but far more hollow, a little like a bone flute blown in the wrong angle. The scrabbling of underbrush sounded out, followed by the distinct splintering of dry wood. The crackling of gravel. It was something that could scare any steed into a frenzy. Even the wyrms were wise enough to stop and wait along the invisible border between safety and peril. Here, Chaldrion and his beast.
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Posted: Wed Feb 17, 2010 1:49 pm
Chaldrion halted as the loud, moaning wail echoined through the air. Kur'grohm stirred, rearing on his hind legs, his Daemonic cry bellowing from his twisted mouth. More sounds revealed themselves; the scraping of foliage, rocks tumbling, wood cracking. Chaldrion looked down into the distant landscape, in attempt to decipher the source of the noises. Gripping his mace tighter, he brought Kur'grohm into a slow trod down the rocky slope.
Another loud wailing filled the sky as Chaldrion decended further down the ridge. Kur'grohm brayed and stamped his hooves on the rocky ground. No mortal elements would frighten the Daemonic creature. Chaldrion turned his head at the sound of rolling gravel to his right. Suddenly, a shadow loomed overhead and he glanced upwards to see a horrid, screaming mass of horns and blades leaping down at him. Kur'grohm quickly spun out of the beast's way, rearing and wildly flaying his front legs. Chaldrion regained control over the Daemon-horse and observed the Deathlord. From it's arms protruded sharp spikes and talons, and it's blank head seemed to gaze at him with an eerie lack of emotion.
"Come, my friends, bring down pestilence upon thy foe!" Chaldrion roared. As he did so, hordes of flies protruded from crevices in his armor. The disease-carrying insects swarmed the Deathlord, burrowing into its dry, black skin and into what would have been its eyesockets; if it even had eyes. The creature threw his limbs about in attempt to shake off the deadly vermin, which only dug deeper into its flesh, excreting toxins and filth. Chaldrion shook with laughter as he gleefully watched the beast struggle, as it was near inevitable to escape the fate he bestowed.
The Deathlord fell to the ground in anguish, shaking and flaying its arms about, howling in agony. Chaldrion dismounted from Kur'grohm and drew the Father of Blades from its scabbard. He plunged the sword into the creature's chest and cut a wide slit, in which he reached for the Dreadstone. Closing his armored fist around the cold stone, he drew it from the beast's chest and it immediatley ceased its spasms. Chaldrion grinned and chuckled to himself, observing the spoils of victory. He placed it in a sack at his belt and returned to his saddle, riding back to the Doctor.
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Posted: Wed Feb 17, 2010 8:13 pm
...and so the beast had been felled, and the Knight returned upon his horse in all glory.
Standing to greet him at the very ledge, Dr. Grimesorrow quivered in anticipation.
"Ah! Excellent! Excellent! For a moment, I thought you would not return alive! But you've proven me wrong! Wrong!"
The good Doctor cackled into the air, followed by a wheezing cough.
As the Wyrm lowered itself onto the Bulwark, Dr. Grimesorrow was only too eager to take the heart... and before you knew it, the bloody thing was gone from your person.
The shriveling mass behind the mask and robe seemed to almost float off as he walked into a nearby black tent.
The air was silent for but a moment... and several flashes of green light followed by several hissings and bangs ruined that quickly.
Steam rose out of the tent as the last of the green flashed ended, and the hack-coughing and cackling of Dr. Grimesorrow once again pleased the senses as he came out of the practically smoking tent.
"Here we are..."
Grimesorrow pulled out in front of you a simple looking green stone, etched with black cut markings.
The product of a Deathlord's heart, the dreadstone.
"Take it... channeling it's energies will lead you straight to Sleepyknell, which will lead you closer to your goal... and closer to my Master... keep the stone close, you may just need it for other occasions..."
Nodding vigorously, Doctor Grimesorrow turned cackling into the air, leaving you to harness the stone and be transported to the shadow of the Dread Dialect...
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Posted: Thu Feb 18, 2010 2:46 am
Chaldrion reached down and retrieved the stone from the Doctor's hand. Its surface was smooth and had dark symbols and runes inscribed upon its surface. As he looked from the stone back to the Doctor, the man had vanished from sight.
Chaldrion tightened his grip on the stone, placing the tips of his fingers on each of the inscribed runes. The sigils began to glow a bright green and a haze of emerald fog encircled him and his mount. With a flash of light and the sound of flickering balefire, Chaldrion was wisked to his destination.
(Chaldrion exits)
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Posted: Fri Feb 19, 2010 10:31 am
The elf had traveled far and wide to reach the destination that would hereby shape the rest of his life and ultimately lead to the destiny that was set for him. Ever since he’d received word of the Knights of Internal Darkness, he hadn’t wanted anything more in his life than to join their ranks. He believed that he had been chosen; that no matter the task, he would find a way to complete his mission because this.. this is what was meant to happen.
As Djelani’s bright eyes drifted toward his destination, his expression was not of fear, but curiosity. Never in his years did he even imagine such a place to reside in this world. It was a land of pure darkness. He felt no dread, for it welcomed him. It was comforting to know that such a place as the Dead Bulwark was used to recruit those who shared his common interests; those who Djelani would consider to be his brothers and sisters, so long as they would live to see him.
He was startled by the voice of the Plague Doctor, who he found to be a most curious creature. He listened to the Doctor’s words, enthralled by his story and excited by the challenge presented before him. Djelani followed the mysterious man to the foot of the mountain from which the Citadel rested and was impressed. He was drawn to the thorns and deadly vines that encircled the mountain, for they were a beautiful sight to see.
“Bring me a dreadstone!” The Plague Doctor shrieked and revealed the creature within his withered hand that Djelani was required to slay. He smiled at the sight, “Excellent,”he said, and went on his way.
The elf was clad in the cloth of peasants, but wore an armor that appeared to be made entirely out of wood. He’d enchanted it to be as strong as steel over a seven day ritual of constant chanting, day and night. In his hand, he held a war scythe, which had undergone the same treatment, which he used interchangeably as a walking stick and as a weapon.
As Djelani approached the ridge, blood-curdling screeches and wails echoed throughout the mountain. Immediately, he reached into the pack he carried and retrieved what resembled a large, black pinecone with horned ridges. It was a weapon that he'd been saving for such a task. When that ominous, looming shadow casted over him, the elf could only simply wait for the beast to appear and when it did, the elf was in absolute awe. “Yadata…” He uttered at the sight of such a magnificent creature. “So this is a Deathlord.” The monster, faceless and fearsome, with spikes, blades, and horns protruding from every inch of its body, screamed and the earth shook.
At that time, Djelani threw his pinecone as if it were explosive. It landed just before the creature and thus, the elf’s chant began. He stood his ground, albeit a little nervously, and held out his hand as if beckoning for the monster to leave him be.
“Yazantha havatè bas kiao yamìna, bas maniva kun zásathasa.”
A rumbling of the rocks as the beast took its first step forward, and directly overhead of Djelani’s weapon. The pinecone began to grow. Several sprouts arose from its horned ridges and strengthened with every small second.
“Chastaha haiye hum las binshatha, lodi charye sumse duacharta.”
By the second line that Djelani quickly recited, those sprouts had grown into black, snakelike roots that burrowed into the crevices in those rocks, and around the legs of the monster. The top of the plant opened up, and the tree began to grow.
“Yazantha Havana, karta duacharthe bas maniva kin chandivali.”
Before the Deathlord could feel its movement being compromised by the thick wood taking root, creeping around its legs, it was too late. When it tried to shatter the roots, they grew back and clung to him even more rapidly. The blackened tree grew around the massive beast, tangling around its spiked body.
“Yazantha havatè bas kiao yamìna, bas maniva kun zásathasa.” Djelani recited the chant again, and the monster soon became engulfed by a twisted mass of wood, imprisoned by the massive tree whose sharpened, horn-like branches began to grow outwards, sprouting no leaves. The elf closed his eyes for one final blow; the retrieval of the Deathlord’s heart – the Dreadstone.
Suddenly, the beast’s grievous wails began to pierce the skies once more, muffled by the tree which held it prisoner. Its pained howls went on for several seconds as one, single large branch forced its way from the creature’s chest, releasing a cascade of blood that flowed like rain down the trunk of the Deathlord’s tree. The withered, bloodied branch resembled the bony hand of the Plague Doctor Grimesorrow, clutching the Dreadstone in its ‘fingers’.
The elf was pleased at the sight of his creation when he opened his eyes and approached the towering tree. He placed his hand upon the bark and laid the beast to rest with a short eulogy in his native language. The branch released its prize, and Djelani caught the heart in his hands.
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