The Darkest Journey [IC]

[Ashgan]

His ancient shield raised, his majesty’s vanguard inched forward, closing in on the dark warrior whose shadowy form rose in front of the abominable fire on the disappearing bridge that crackled with fiendish glee and spat sparks into the night. A dreadful, sighing wind washed over the open space, whirling up timeless dust and unmasking the black robed undead’s bald, skeletal head which had thus far been covered by his inky hood. Unlike his shiny adversary, he had no shield to rely on, no armor to protect him. All he had was his sword and his endless faith, and even that was matched by his fervent opponent. But failure was not an option, no. He had wandered too far to perish here and his hopes were too high to fall now. His dear lady counted on him, he could not disappoint her. Patiently waiting for an opening, he stood there, unwavering, undistracted, undeterred, bathed in the soft light of his lantern and his blade.

The Vanguard was the first to break the stalemate and go on the offensive; with a quick and strong movement of his arm, his great halberd came crashing down from above, the axe-head glistening with the murderous intent to split the enigmatic warrior entwine. The latter darted to the right with the speed of a fox, barely avoiding the disastrous strike that just hit the ground uselessly, obliterating one of the tiles in the pavement. With both of his hands now firmly grasping the handle of his straight sword, the lady’s knight leaned forward and closed the gap between him and his opponent before this one could retract his weapon. Though the shield was still in the way, he hoped that the magic in his sword could strike true. He swung his weapon in a wide, horizontal arc that left behind a blinding trail of white light, finally hitting the golden shield which caused a bright flash of white on impact. The relic of a shield remained intact, though a deep gash now cut the angel on the front in two along the chest. Staggered by the arcane force of the attack, the vanguard stumbled two steps backwards before regaining his poise. His black-robed enemy did not relent; only a split second after reclaiming his footing, another sword slash came down upon him, this time vertically from the top, which cut about an ell’s length through the top of the shield before being retracted. Overtaken by zealotry and lust for glory, the dark warrior remained close and aimed for a third hit identical to the first, but before he could execute the strong armed attack, the gold-clad vindicator retaliated by stepping forward and ramming his gigantic shield into the former. Stricken off-guard, the lady’s knight was sent flying backwards a few paces where he landed on his non-existent buttocks. He attempted to get back on his feet as quickly as he could, but it was too late to tumble out of the halberd’s reach, which was already homing in from his left in a horizontal slash that was sure to sever his entire body. With no other option to turn to, he brought up his sword that glowed like the stars to clash with the golden blade. Steel met steel, white light flashed and sparks danced in the air when the two weapons embraced another. So violent was the vanguard’s attack that the other warrior had to step backwards twice in hopes of not being thrown down again by the block. The two broke contact and gained distance for the first time since the engagement. Weary and empty eye sockets glared at each other with hate and respect at the same time. Though standing on opposite fronts of an age-old war, they could appreciate the other’s fighting skill and devotion to their chosen master. At the end of the day, they were not so different from each other.

Meanwhile, the ancient golem whose very existence was an enigma to the world, had taken conscience of the orders it was given by its golden oppressor. When it turned its back to the ensuing duel with no second thoughts, it faced a sizeable commotion of undead, some of which looked back at the elemental construct with what seemed like hostility. Feeling no particular appreciation nor dislike for any of the individuals before it, it decided to simply stick with what it was told to do and make sure that none would pass. The rotten earth and mossy gravestones churned and shifted, and the golem’s body gradually expanded horizontally so that it became less tall but in turn covered more ground. While most of the earth was still gathered in the center, it now had elongated arms with which to intercept any runners that might have attempted to dash past the admittedly slow creature.

[Sakuya Izayoi]

Legion listened carefully, his body now crouched low toward the ground, ready to roll at the slightest hint of aggressive movement from the abomination of stone and dirt, watching carefully with eyes unseen from within the darkness of his skull. His initial assumption seemed even more likely now that he had closed the distance and gained a better appreciation for what stood before him. Just one hit. That was all it would take. A single broad swing and Legion would be reduced to a pile of shattered bone and dented metal plating. Not an ideal end to his undead existence. But if he had had lips to smile he would have grinned at what the creature did next. The creature had expanded its reach, creating a fundamental weakness in the process. One that could be exploited with the right approach. The creature readied itself to fight many, but what if it was attacked by only one. In that case then all of its reach was for naught. Legion flexed his fists experimentally, causing arcs of flame to leap between his fingers.

“Creature of blades, you want to learn the craft do you? Then first you need to help me deal with this monster of earth and stone,” Legion said in a level, calm voice that echoed as it always did with the sound of many. Legion opened his right hand and held his fingers in toward his palm. For a brief moment there was a faint gathering of flame. Legion crushed his hand into a fist, causing flame to spread up and around his entire right arm. The sleeve of his ragged robe disintegrating in mere moments. And yet the flame spread no further, leaving the rest of his robe unburned. It danced in the air above him with gentle, controlled power. The light in his eyes glowed a deep dark crimson red.

“Attack that monster head on, give it no chance to fight back at all! Tear it apart with no hesitation. Fear not its arms, they will not reach you!” The fire around his arm burned more furiously in response to his words. “Horseman, use you mount and break past him at the first opportunity, cut a path for the others! Endanger no one!” Legion said as he flexed and opened his left hand, creating another flame around that, just like the first spreading up his arm. He stood up straight with his arms held out and his hands open. The hood fell from his head and rested on his shoulders. Legion wished that he could smile. “And then bring down those pillars!”

[Dark Jack]

Seconds ticked away unnoticed by Bleeder, time having lost its meaning to him as a span between separate things long ago during his time inanimate before the eternal fire outside the city. Rather, time in which nothing happened directly related to him felt as though it barely even existed at all - only when time was important to him, in the rare events in which he found himself briefly possessing fickle purpose did time matter. Sometimes, this purpose had been self-preservation, and split-seconds came to hold infinite importance as even the slightest delay could mean that his changeless body could be damaged. His purpose could be to slay an opponent, in which time could both mean that his attacks were evaded and his target survived, or at a further span even mean that his enemy escaped. Or, in some cases, his purpose could be that of curiosity, and time became the measure of how long he had to sate that curiosity before the object of his fascination moved beyond his reach. Such purposes were ephemeral, but precious - little gemstones of certainty and direction lodged into the road of his empty destiny.
For the moment Bleeder had no threat towards himself, no enemy to destroy, and the thing he was the most interested in was a thing he estimated to be as everlasting as himself. The skeleton before him was Undead, and thus presumably as imperishable as himself, and as long as this Undead existed, the Sorcery within it would as well. Right now, this skeleton and the knowledge it possessed was Bleeder's purpose... if, of course, it was willing to share its knowledge. Was it not, perhaps the golden figure from before would teach him. He simply addressed this wielder of Sorcery out of convenience, as there was no obstacle between him and it. Nothing more, nothing less.

The only time Bleeder's unblinking gaze strayed from the skeletal sorcerer was when the headless rider hurdled forward on his Undead mount - wherever the creature had come from, as Bleeder felt fairly certain that it had not been there just moments earlier - and apparently worked his own Sorcery, one unlike that of the fire-wielding skeletons. Bleeder's faint instincts urged him to keep an eye on this Undead, thinking this fast-approaching figure a danger, but his attention stayed on him when he saw the shadowy energies he seemed to manipulate. More Sorcery... but no magic fire. But still Sorcery.
When the ethereal voice of what Bleeder presumed was the headless one spoke, he listened, though he quickly lost interest as the other's words grew too many. These Undead really talked a lot, spewed words without purpose. It annoyed him quite a bit. He did seize one thing from the headless one's, though - Rubble Storm, he called the shapeless question without answer. It was as good a label as any, and Bleeder appreciated the words. The rest, to him, were lost to their own abundance, and his attention soon returned to the one he had addressed.

Bleeder's eyes were fixed on the other's hand while the other spoke, watching the enchanted flames enveloping the skeleton's arms as if entranced, and the right side of his face which still had muscles to create facial expressions formed something like a twisted, macabre grin on his face.
But even borderline hypnotized by the magnificence of magic fire as he was, Bleeder also hung by the skeleton's every word with almost fanatical fervor, thinking every syllable that came from this creature as important as his own very existence. This Undead sorcerer before him, this one who could teach him 'the craft', wanted something of him, and Bleeder would endeavor to fulfill the desires of the one who could teach him Sorcery.
Turning away from the skeleton, tearing his eyes away from the enticing sight of otherworldly fire, Bleeder faced the Rubble Storm and stared at it intently, examining the creature cautiously, yet filled now with a sense of urgency. The skeleton had given him a purpose: to attack the Rubble Storm, to tear it apart. The Rubble Storm was his enemy, his purpose, and he would not rest until it was defeated and the skeleton satisfied with his actions. Seconds not seemed to have taken on enormous importance as they passed, and even as he noted how the Rubble Storm had seemed to grow shorter and wider, noting its huge size and long arms and the fact that the creature could probably crush him with ease, he was also preparing to charge. His right hand reached over his left shoulder and found a sturdy wooden handle there, which he seized tightly before he pulled on it fiercely, and with a screech of tearing metal, bone and flesh and a dull throb of distant pain, Bleeder brandished his axe, twirling the brutal weapon in his hand so that he held it correctly before he grasped it with both hands and held it up before him in a combat-ready stance.
There might have been more words, but Bleeder cared not for such things. He had a purpose. And so without further hesitation he charged at the center of the Rubble Storm, launching himself into a leap, and swung his axe vertically with all his strength.

[KrimpetyCatcher]

'Fools. They are all fools.'

For what else could they be? What reason would bring a person - or rather, a non-person - to charge at such a wall? The Golem, the Rubble Storm; the monstrosity had spread itself across the almost the entire width of the square. Slow it may have been, and with even slower intellect, but to charge such a thing? Madness. Cas had seen a lot of foolishness in his long Unlife. Stray wolves, ragged with hunger, attempting to pick a fight with a band of roving Undead; mad skeletons, certain they could fly, jumping off the soaring tops of crumbling towers to find that nothing but the End awaited them; even Torstas, mad shrunken hermit that he was, would have deemed this foolhardy. And yet, before his very eyes, one of them charged at the roiling earth, axe in hand. What did he expect to do? If the blade did not break on the solid rock which was his target, it would still prove ineffective. And what would flames do to such a being? The creature was so massive, so unimaginable in its density, that surely fire would have no effect on it whatsoever. Unless...

Understanding dawned upon Cas instantly. Unless the monstrosity had spread itself out a little too far. There may have been a weakness to exploit after all, a point to attack. But could the creature be harmed? Could it feel pain? Its existence troubled him, simply due to the fact that he could not explain it. He had seen all types of creatures in his travels, each more grotesque and baffling than the last. Yet all had undoubtedly once been human - once been living. But this thing, whatever it was, certainly wasn't a reborn creature. It was living earth, rolling, tumbling stone - and the fact that he had absolutely no way to explain this was gnawing at his very being, a persistent rat which could not be pushed away.

But, unlike him, he pushed the questions away. At least for the time being. For now, he had more important things to deal with - such as passing this monster without being crushed into the dirt in the process. The monster was being attacked on at least three fronts, and he had already deduced that it had limited intelligence. Would it be possible to simply sneak past the Golem, around the edges of its mass? He had to try, whether it meant his end or not. Whatever the cost, he had to reach the lantern bearing soldier. If his curiosity about the Golem was a rat, his thirst to question the swordsman was a bear, tearing at his soul until he could provide it with answers. He felt that if his questions were not answered soon, he could very well End.

This was the desperation he was struck with as he began to skirt closer to the monster, calling upon his Sorcery as he did so. If things went according to plan, he would simply pass by the edges of the monsters arms unnoticed as it fended off the other attacks. If things did not... Well, he doubted he would care for long.

[Ashgan]

“What makest thee carry on like thou dost do? What madness hath she whispered in thine ears? Dost thou not see that Lord Elizier is not the villain here? Milord only seeks to rebuild a land in dire need thereof, and yet thou accusest him of crime! How canst thou do so?”

The defender in gold pledged his cause and questioned his opponent’s motives in a tone that betrayed his confusion. Though stalwart and unrelenting, it was clear that he actually did not fathom why this man before him fought so ferociously for a cause so alien to him. His heavy shield, now damaged by two visible cuts, slammed against the dusty ground when he put it down to save his strength.

“Strange that you should oppose me when Morwenth is so dear to you. You are poor and misguided, and know nothing of the world, not enough to be so deeply disturbed and consumed by hatred as I. Your master has long passed his chance for redemption, and the only way to heal the world is for your Elizier to die. Still, there is honor in you. Stand down, and let me pass,” the black crusader answered with a cool voice that hinted at the dark emotions boiling in his undead heart.

The brightly shining combatant’s eyes went downwards while he considered the other’s words. He truly wondered what kind of insights – or lies – this death-bringing wanderer must have been subjected to. Clearly, his conviction was at least as, if not even greater than his own, and though he had no intentions of backing down, he wondered if his resolve could stand against such unbridled faith and anger. Briefly, he spied towards the Golem, who was about to be assaulted by a maniac whose mind seemed consumed by madness. Or was it? Perhaps he, too, believed in something greater than himself that moved him to assault a creature so frightening and powerful as the graveyard behemoth. Truthfully, it did not matter to him at the time; he had a fight to finish. A fight to protect his master, himself, and his dreams.

“I will not,” he declared, raising his shield anew and straightening his posture.

“I see. Forgive me, then,” the dark paladin replied and, without hesitation, initiated the assault anew. Fueled by vigor he charged forwards with his sword outstretched horizontally at his side, aiming for a powerful frontal slash that, combined with his magic, would easily cut a man in two. With some luck, it would break the shield.

Meanwhile, a few paces away, the animated construct of dirt, stone and death sluggishly became aware of its assailants, or really, of Bleeder. What was the point in extending its reach when this one simply attacked? It all seemed so redundant now, especially since this one was fast, so damned fast. Before long, the crazed undead leapt in a heroic attack at the giant, and his axe dug through the foul earth to little avail. When Bleeder was on the ground again, now knee-deep inside the muddy rump of the creature, Golem just about began to understand what exactly had happened. Though wondrous and incredibly powerful, it seemed that the artificial life created by the grand Mortimer had been flawed after all. Was it really possible to create true, perfect life with one’s own hands, or was it something reserved for Morwenth after all? In response to the attack, Golem’s body morphed in such a way that the chest vomited itself and a massive slab of stone over Bleeder who, if he did not back off, would be buried alive under the veritable landslide. In the process of all of this, Cas slipped by completely and entirely unnoticed; not only was Golem busy with the berserking warrior in front of it, but its sense of perception in general was fairly dull, while Cas was overly proficient at remaining undetected. When he emerges on the other side, Cas will be able to witness the second round of the duel between light and dark.

The white shining sword screamed as it cut through the air and then hit against a wall of gold with a loud clangor. Bright sparks danced in the dark as the blade cut yet another incision into the massive bulwark. His majesty’s guardian ground his teeth as he pressed against the powerful onslaught, but he did not waver or give in to the assault. In retaliation, his great, golden halberd homed in from the side, the axe head flashing with horrible intent. This time, the cloaked swordsman could not avoid the blow in time and was hit with the strength of a bear. The impact crushed his left upper arm to the point of breaking the bone entirely, and while the lifeless limb dropped to the ground, he was still further pushed to the side where he finally fell on his one remaining arm. He got back up on his knees and reached for his sword, while his triumphant opponent gazed down at him from behind the gilded visor.

Impossible! How could this happen? He had made a promise. He had sworn to protect her, to fight for her, to achieve victory! It all sounded so noble and good at first. Now that he was facing the first harbingers of the darkness that engulfed Morwenth, he felt doubt eating away at his heart. He dared not to think of the horrors that were yet to come.

For a moment, he stared at his severed arm and his adversary – who, mercifully, did not take advantage of the situation – and back again, absorbed in doubts and fears. Then, just as the guardian was about to move in to give him a coup de grace, his remaining hand clutched the handle of his sword tightly, and he darted to the right with newfound vigor so as to avoid the overhead swing that would have otherwise sent him into the ground. Keeping his momentum, he nimbly leapt straight into his heavily armored opponent and, with a desperate, brutal scream he rammed his brightly shining sword completely through the other’s shield, even piercing the breast plate. As if wanting to shove his sword all the way through his enemy, he kept walking forwards and pressing against him, while the light on his weapon intensified, to the point of glowing brighter than the stars in the sky. Moments later, when the two were already consumed by a light so bright that neither could be seen anymore, a shockwave of sound and luminosity burst forth from the pair, and then the light faded. When both could see each other again, the great, golden shield was no more; shattered fragments lay scattered across the entire plaza, and the dimly glowing blade ran through his golden chest to the hilt so that the end poked out of his back.

I cannot fail; even if I should falter in face of my own frailty, she will always be there to protect me and give me strength. I know this now.

What should have been a lethal blow to any mortal in truth affected the skeletal guardian only little. His mind manifested dark desires and ill wishes, and before long, his left arm – now bereft of any object to hold – caught fire and began to burn with a bright, orange flame. With a yell that could have spelled “Die!”, his burning fist connected with the cloaked swordsman’s head and crushed his face before sending him flying onto his back. The flames slowly faded again, and the vanguard now held onto his halberd with two hands.

“Speak thy prayers, warrior, and send Elizier’s regards to her,” he said with confidence while approaching the black robed skeleton who was lying on his back, trying to crawl backwards, “and worriest not for thy bones; I shalt properly put them to rest.”

He tried to get up again, but could not do so in time. Elizier’s finest warrior, who was still pierced by a sword, slammed his halberd down upon the lady’s doomed hero where the axe crushed the bones with a satisfying crunch, first once, then twice. All that remained of the tragic hero were a handful of broken bones, a lump of dark cloth, and an unharmed but lonely lantern shining solemnly in the dark. What fate awaited the lady now?

[Aydan Tenaebra]

Ryver waited. Eyes surveying everything. She slipped farther back now, into the shadows of the building in which the old one had stood in the doorway. The wind lifted strands of her raven hair across her face and her pale skin seemed to blend in as well with the grey, crumbling stone as her black garb did with the night. She had given herself time to rethink her rash initial actions, though her gaze repeatedly was drawn to the objects of her curiosity. She would still try to get to the strange knight with his lantern, and the gold-armored vanguard. Oh yes, she would not abandon the things that had truly piqued her curiosity for the first time in two decades and pulled her into foolish actions. However, she intended to keep her curiosity in enough control to keep her in one piece. She would not fall so easily as... No. Those are not thoughts for now. They need to remain buried for a while longer yet... Now focus you childish fool!

Legion, she noted, had come on board with the plan of the rider. Or at least it sounded so to her as he pushed the other undead to attack the Golem head on in return for sorcery. He had also, it seemed called for the rider to attack. She thought a moment. What is he trying to accomplish by- The answer seemed to strike her just as the old one moved from his door way and toward the fighting beyond the monstrosity of dirt, bone and gravestones. Surely the creature's weak points would show clearly if it was stretched to it's limits by doing battle over the wider area. Of course, having it distracted would also make it easier for another to slip by it.

Ryver's violet gaze lighted on the old one, confirming her second theory at least. He had slipped by the Golem completely unnoticed. She kept her short sword in hand, holding it beneath her cloak so that it might not reflect light and attract unwanted attention from the mass holding position in front of the Vanguard and knight. Quietly she followed the path of the undead who had just skirted the moving wall, sticking close to the crumbling structures and their shadows. She stopped, still hidden in the shadows, just on the other side of the monster. The undead woman watched with mild surprise.

She had been quite sure of the strange skeleton and his lantern. They had defeated multiple of Elizier's Ashen Guard. Now, however, she found herself watching as the Vanguard took the upper hand and then crushed his opponent. Her gaze was drawn to the lantern, shining in the darkness, next to what was left of the dark knight. Her mind ached to know what it was, how it had come away from the fight without a scratch, and why Elizier had been so concerned by the one who had carried it... Her fingers twitched slightly around the hilt of her sword, but she moved no further, nor made a sound. Her eyes would dart to the fight with the Golem- making sure she had not been detected- and back to the victorious Vanguard and the uninjured lantern. How do I get to it without a fight?

[Old Hero]

Grynn listened.

Grynn analyzed.

Grynn obeyed.

With the faint flicker of his cape, and the quick glitter of his saber whistling through the air, he was off. Shaed's feet assaulted the ground in a brutal cacophony of bone-on-pavement, and struck at the dirt in torrents of lightning. There was no finer steed than Shaed in Velerath, no finer companion than Shaed in Velerath, and most importantly, no follower more loyal than Shaed in Velerath. This brought surprise to Velerath's haunter, as the closer his stallion came to the brightening lights of the lantern-wielder, the slower he would ride. In fact, it was by sheer pride that the Undead horse carried onward. Something about the light threatened Shaed, and Grynn did not like it. And he did not like this Rubble Storm.

He could feel the dough bake in his head; a new determination growing in his mind. He slashed at a thinner piece of Golem's mass until his non-muscles burned and his veins pumped battery acid. He stabbed and slashed, thrusted and smashed, until he could clear a path for himself. And the others. If Grynn could feel dehydration, he would have. If Grynn could tire, he would have.

This was a situation that did not require thought, but strength. It was a situation that required Grynn to be a more primitive being, to be unafraid and unwavering. He had to return to his primordial instincts of 'kill or be killed'. And Grynn preferred kill.

He was unaware that Shaed's feet had been trembling from the intense light of the two warriors over yonder. He was unaware that Shaed's legs had buckled, and that he had fallen with him. He was pumped with the adrenaline of a familiar urge; an urge that had long since plagued him. His tongue thirsted for the destruction of Golem, so that he may reach the lantern, and his lack of teeth hungered for the toppling of Rubble Storm, so that he may help Elizier's enemy. He cared not for his own meaning as much as the others, but the meaning to his sudden outbursts of rage. He considered himself an intelligent Undead, and yet he was a berserker of a man. He considered himself a loyal companion, and yet he was a deceitful and untrustworthy Soul.

Who is Grynn?

His strikes carried the strength of a distant thunder, and the speed of a close lightning. But irregardless of his ferocity and intensity, he was attacking a congregation of dirt and stone. He was attacking Mother Nature at its best.

[Hymusia]

She had been close by, procuring herself a little new 'make-up' when she felt it, a fine tremor in the earth. Something, she was not sure what, tugged at her senses and demanded she go look. However her make up was also pretty important, glancing at the fresh ingredient in her hand and the prone body upon the floor she tilted her doll like head and gazed with soul less glassy eyes. It did not move, they never did once she cut them, they just lay there, still, unmoving. “Lazy.” She whispered to the corpse, turning away from the corpse whose blood spilled into the ground and disappearing into the tree line. The terrified new mothers eyes growing glassy and watching with mortification as she took the still and rapidly cool newborns corpse with her out of sight, the babies screams silenced when the doll had crushed the babies throat with a look that hinted at a lack of understanding as much as out of cold, callous sadism.

Through the woods she walked with scythe dragged behind, pulling up leaf litter and twigs and cutting through even the dirt with a soft ripping sound. In her other she carried the child, by one of its ankles, its eyes not even open and it's corpse growing bluer with every step, it's limp lifeless body bouncing off her legs and off the odd tree trunk as she made her way towards that strange alien feeling that tugged at whatever part of humanity reacted to intrigue. The walk was not as long as she expected, but by the time she reached the clearing the fight was well under way, she did not though pause in her stride, observing as she approached.

There was a large thing fighting against something else, this creature caught her attention immediately for it's resemblance to a graveyard...her graveyard, though she knew that was not true. It's beautiful body made from the shifting dirt, cold dusty tombstones risen from it's flesh. What a hideous monstrosity, she wondered for a moment if it was owned and then if killing the owner would grant it to her. However such a fleeting notion fled, it was not grotesque enough to hold her sway long. The second fight seemed to be between gold and black, light and dark, archaic but intriguing, one would think that the dark would learn, light things always won, always.

To those who watched her motions seemed rather jerky, animated but not truly mobile. Her knees would jerk and cause her to appear to shuffle rather than walk, her hips seemed not to know what to do and her arms were completely limp as if they had no bones. She walked like a marionette at a puppet theatre, her scythe tearing at the dirt, the now blue baby whose skull was cracked and bruised with a vicious dark black on one side of its head. Her head tilting sharply to one side, her temple to her shoulder, her glassy eye focusing on the intense fight between the two warriors, her pace never stopping. However slow she appeared to be at times she seemed to defy convention, slipping through several feet of space unseen in a matter of seconds, an insane grin like poison splitting her face.

She first paused in mid stride when the blinding light began to engulf the area, shining enough to make mortals cover their eyes. She didn't, she continued to look with a gaze that never saw, perceived or attempted too, staring straight on into the distance, somewhere far away and unreachable. When the light faded her head jerked backwards, the hand holding the baby lifted, turning the chubby cold ankle so it was held in a loop by her index and thumb. Reaching up to try and catch the falling golden star dust, the dying embers of stars and planets, a burning worlds ashes. Slowly she turned, like a music box dancer,pirouetting on one leg while holding the butt of the scythe's handle as one might their dance partners hand or shoulder.

Then too the golden sparks faded and she paused once again, frozen in place and once more righting her skull, silver locks dancing as she did so. For a moment that grin faltered, then disappeared completely, as if wiped off her face like a mistake on a drawing. Lowering her head she glanced back to the fighters, for a glorious moment the dark had the upper hand and she began moving once again, shambling towards the combatants that were by this point only a matter of metres away from her. By the time the light had crushed the skull of the dark she was but feet away and then, moving with the grace of a shadow she closed that gap. Crouching at the head of the skeletal remains, the babies own head bouncing off the dry ground, the scythe still held behind her in a limp arm, her gaze silently wandering across the ruined creature, tilting to the opposite shoulder as if the new direction would give her some kind of insight to a question only she understood.

[Dark Jack]

Much to Bleeder's annoyance it seemed that his axe-blow to the Rubble Storm, while landed successfully, had absolutely no effect. All that really happened was that the axe-blade dug into the body of the creature without really hurting it, and when the weapon was retrieved as Bleeder returned to the ground, the Rubble Storm seemed no worse for wear than it had been before his assault. Still, Bleeder was not discouraged - while his strike did not seem to have hurt the Rubble Storm much, the fact remained that he had hit it, and if he had hit it once, he could do so again. The sorcerer skeleton had told him to tear the Rubble Storm apart, and Bleeder was going to do his foremost to do just that.
That is, he would have, had the Rubble Storm not decided to... actually, Bleeder was not sure what it was doing, but while he knew nothing of this creature he was fighting, he knew enough about dirt and stone to know that he did not want to be buried in the avalanche of the stuff that seemed to spew out of the Rubble Storm's body.
Intent to simply move out of the way of what Bleeder presumed had to be some kind of defensive maneuver for the Rubble Storm, the Undead tried to throw himself sideward... only to realize that he had managed to land in some kind of knee-deep substance that prevented him from throwing himself anywhere, or performing any kind of quick relocation, really. Looking up at the crushing mass of dirt coming towards him significantly faster than he could move out of the way, Bleeder found that he was growing rather irritated with this Rubble Storm. It was a troublesome opponent, indeed. He wanted it to die, but right now he figured that his chances of inflicting any kind of demise upon the creature was more than improbable.

Wading the few steps through the mud he could manage, the Undead warrior managed to evade the stone slab coming at him - which he was rather pleased with, seeing as he imagined being crushed would present something of a disadvantage in the future - only to be caught in the coiling mass of dirt that came with it, and from one moment to the next he was swallowed up by darkness, completely buried in the troublesome attack of the Rubble Storm. He was left stuck, and quite helpless. This annoyed him even more.
When I get out of here, he decided grumpily, I'll be angry.

[Shienvien]

With a dull metallic thud, one end of a heavy rust-colored object landed on stone, only to be lifted from the ground again a moment after. In the lack of a better name, the wielder of the object usually referred to it as a staff in his mind, whereas in truth it was rather simply a thick two-meters-tall solid iron pole with two identical moderately pointed ends. The next time it fell, it met soft muddy soil and bored itself two thirds of an inch into the ground two feet from its previous spot of rest.
A few shuffling, almost dragged steps, and the wielder of the robust improvised weapon caught up with his possession, halting himself by its side. The wielder appeared unsteady and his posture unstable like that of a person who is not far from keeling over from exhaustion or wounds, and only through the sheer strength of will manages to keep himself upright still. Yet, this person was not about to fall into the dirt beneath his feet, even though a mere gust of air ought to have been sufficient to overthrow his seemingly barely maintained upright position. No, only the rags of a dark coat covering the loosely-fitting chainmail on the individual's thin frame fluttered in the wind as if those were birds to no avail struggling to take flight against whatever held them in place.
Though this figure stood like a dead body might hang from the gallows, he remained standing, impartially observing the scene unfolding before him without making a move of his own, his head having fallen slightly to the right and his empty eye sockets staring lifelessly ahead from a fleshless face with a perpetual mismatched grin. The expression was forced by his condition and portrayed no actual feelings of joy or elation. In reality, his thoughts were dominated by a this far quite neutral personal curiosity. He now had a higher vantage point and he remained out of the sphere of interest for most of the multiple characters moving about before him, which was the way he preferred it. There was no point in risking his bones for something which might turn out to be not worth it in the end.
Those beneath his long-missing eyes were all in various different stages of decomposion, some but naked bones, some still looking quite fresh and intact to the point of still having their glassy eyes. They all were showing quite the significant signs of being able to perform deliberate actions despite of the minor characteristic traits of having no beating hearts or functional brains. They all were undead like he - the distant figure himself - was. That was - all but one.

While Bleeder had disliked the animated construct from practically the moment he first saw it, and all the rest thought it to be merely something they had to get around or rid of, then Igdalmar Am considered Golem to be an object of keen interest to him. His own body never tired, and it needed no food, water or heat, but it was deterringly - to his own self - brittle. It made no difference what his strength or skill was when just one erroneous move or a blink of an eye's worth of delay could just shatter his physical form to pieces and scatter him across the entire place with no chance to do ... more or less anything any longer. Igdalmar Am had become intimately familiar with that vastly unpleasant possibility when he lost most of his original left arm. It had been a frightening experience, if anything had even managed to make him know what fear was before that.
Even if he had eventually managed to replace his missing appendage and fix his own disability, he had long walked the lands thinking that he would be crippled forever. Furthermore, it seemed only pieces originating from other once-living beings could serve the purpose... Igdalmar Am's current guess was that it had something to do with the nature of true souls. Probably a structure - a body, to be more specific - that was formed while having a soul became somehow altered by it so that even the much weaker mock-souls of undead could take root in and inhabit it from then on.
It was exactly the animated construct's unique ability to assimilate random new matter into his body with passing ease and discard it with seeming carelessness that had caught Igdalmar's attention, not its size or unusual appearance. Igdalmar Am was not sure how he could gain access to a similar kind of power, or whether it would even be possible for him to use it, but he was quite inclined - determined - to find out. It would effectively fix his own concerns of perishableness - or eternal lock-in existence -, should he be able to implement himself with something similar. The very existence of such kind of a phenomenal presence essentially already proved the possibility of something of the kind.
He would only have to find out how this construct moved, what powers kept it mobile...

It was then that the nearest skeletal undead's hands and arms lit up in a display of sorcerous fire and he stood in a position which suggested he was about to confront the construct of living earth, whereas two others - the horseman and a slightly fresher (though not as fresh-looking than some of the other undead present) corpse - indeed attacked the seemingly undefeatable giant. The third, a thin fleshy one took a more sensible approach as he simply sneaked past the distracted automaton with a little aid from what appeared to be an nondestructive form of magic. The defender never even noticed the trespassing, but Igdalmar Am did from his distance and with his finely attuned senses. And he had already noticed one more just over there, hiding and hesitant to reveal oneself... Ah yes, he had no extraordinary skill in making himself undetectable and he made a somewhat poor runner on his legs where flight was concerned, but dare someone try creeping up on him. He will notice. They would not get close enough to get him if that was their aim.
Another figure was being drawn in by the commotion, this one also quite fresh-looking... It moved in an odd, dislodged fashion, and it seemed that it was dragging along a quite unresponsive smaller form. Possibly a dead partially formed living? What for?
One of the figures mindlessly assaulting the animated earth got promptly buried by it. The undead was lucky if it did not simply get ground up by the construct, which Igdalmar Am was bound to believe was a rather probable fate. It would however be interesting to learn whether undead came back to their functional unlife if they were properly reassembled after some such mishappening. He had not tested that theory yet... It would be useful to know.

The fight behind the construct's back suddenly took another turn - before the two combatants on the other side had been mostly talking and dealing a few nondevastating blows to one another, but now the confrontation took a much more violent turn. The dark one was a blink of an eye too late and his golden adversary did not waste his chance, shattering the other's upper left arm. It was almost a replica of what had once happened to him, this situation ... only, Igdalmar somehow instinctively knew that this fight would yield a differing result. He had gotten away. The dark one would not be given the chance. Still, in a moment of uncanny ability to relate to someone else, the observing dark figure of Igdalmar Am wondered, for just a moment, what had the doomed character been seeking to end up in such a fight, at this place and time...
Igdalmar Am's this far drooping posture slowly straightened up and his bony shoulders squared, his tilted skull righting itself as he suddenly seemed to stand alert and attentive, immediately gaining more semblance to someone more undead than truly dead. His left hand clenched around the 'staff', whereas his right lifted into the air in front of him as if to reach out for something invisible in front of him.
The dark figure attacked again and with a blinding flash of obviously sorcerous nature he and his adversary collided. For a moment it seemed that the dark one had gotten the upper hand, and for a moment Igdalmar almost expected the golden one to be torn to pieces in the exact same fashion as his shield had went... But no, the dark one did not have the power or fortitude to annihilate his adversary before it was too late. Within moments, the dark one had been reduced to a small pile of detached bones and shards of such lying amidst dark rags. The new addition to the scene, the scythe-wielding corpse-carrier went to poke at the now relatively unresponsive remains.
Igdalmar Am turned his right hand palm upwards, the blade he had for the tip of his index finger pointing skywards out from the hole it had cut into the gauntlet covering the naked bones of the hand. A thread-thin line emanating blinding blueish-white light momentarily connected the wicked claw to the similarly outstretched thumb, producing a sound much akin to that of a twig snapping, and then it was gone. Igdalmar Am simply drew the hand into a fist and let it drop to his side, where it once more unfolded to hang limply.
The ... lantern the dark one had been carrying remained intact, though. It had a few unusual qualities, thus it was interesting enough for him to want to take a look at it. He needed to know how the animated construct worked and what kept it going. And ... could an undead be put back together?

It was thusly that the heavy pole of solid metal was lifted from the ground once more, beginning to land on the ground at even intervals once more; its wielder moved along in the same odd half-shuffling manner, only now there was an odd determination in his movements as he finally went forth and entered the scene.