[center][img]http://orig04.deviantart.net/992f/f/2016/274/0/9/blackblood_by_fenixking13-dajgrkh.png[/img][/center]
[center][color=1b1464]Mithril Blackblood[/color]
[color=aba000]The Golden Sword[/color][/center]

[@liferusher][@Lucius Cypher][@ADamnFiddle][@FamishedPants]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeumyOzKqgI]Fitting? Not sure[/url]


Mithril rose to his full height and basked in the light of their eyes dancing upon him. His was a stance of victory, purity of heart and soul, believing that he stood above any and all threats to himself. They did not understand his nature and his soul any longer. It thrummed in his mind, a flame of blackest desire, demanding his service unwavering and sword unshaking. The soul of his sword demanded perfection and would stand for no less than that. Even without the magnificent blade in his hands Mithril could never be free of its taunting voice. Never flee from the cruelty of its domination. Never betray it when the fun had stopped. 
Any sense of 'self' Mithril had felt until now was quashed in the fires of hatred boiling in the depths of the unfathomable dwelling behind the golden shimmering facade of chaos. 
 
It had told him to be patient, and he had been. 

It had warned him, and he had listened.

Now it told him who and how to make one last show of force, and he did as instructed. 

Mithrils target was not Malakaus. It was Atisha, the one who had first thought to strike its wielder. Who had opposed absolute authority over human life, granted by an abyssmal soul so foul it had been sealed into a weapon. 
The wall of ice was nothing more than a momentary obstacle to its puppet. But it would help the cause for but one brief moment. In that final feeling of absolute power, the final cross upon the swords body was aglow. 
Mithril raised his hand to the sky, dagger in hand, and pointed a finger to the sky as he chanted over and over, draining the last dwindling reserves of magic he had left. 

[color=0072bc]"GOA! GOA! GOA! GOA!" [/color]He shouted from behind the impassive face of the iron mask.

A ball of flame to size of his fist blossomed into creation in an ever growing cluster above his head, what was one became 3, then 7, then 12, until there were dozens of tiny fireballs hovering at his command. His Al Goa was the same concept but at a far grander and tighter scale. The resulting force had threatened to kill the very caster, had he not fallen from his perch moments before the eruption. 

[color=0072bc]"MEET YOUR DOOM, ELF." [/color] Mithril roared to the skies, at his flickering orbs of flame. He would only obey the command that was given. Mithril did not dare look away from his creations, focused to show them one last sight of power before they were killed.
A single command was ushered into a single mind. 

The sword commanded of its puppet.

Malakaus' projectile arced straight and true, defying the suppression that gnawed at the roots of his strength, but did little to break Mithrils spell. Not even a gasp of air drawn from his breathe, barely a shudder as his mask cracked yet more under the weight of impact. 

The sword would not allow it.