Sanities Demise, outlands of Skorhn, year of the rising sun

The ritual had been prepared, and the time was near.

Inside the darkest of the caves, the most foulest of cults, the final machinations of the gleeful eclipse were slowly being brought into motion. A cavern 40 feet high, filled to the brim with hooded figures of all manner of deformity. A man with a lizard tail poking out of his robe quietly chants next to another, of whom a green liquid drips and sizzles out of every orifice. The pews arranged in a semi circle all facing four obelisk stones, vertically faced outwards with binding runes and iron shackles alike waiting for the chosen ones. It was not long before everyone was settled and the proceeds could begin.

A hunched figure steps out of the crowd and ascends the steps. “You all know what is to happen” His words creaking with age. “Those of you who believe to be the chosen, step forward to the obelisks.” From the mutterings of the crowd, 8 figures step forth, looking at each other warily. The mutters grow into violent shouts, accusations flying, small fights breaking out before the elder calls for silence. “There can only be 4, half of these are heretics! Those of you who are the true chosen ones, slay your accusers and be made known to the Gleeful Eclipse!”

A ring is loosely formed around the group of chosen, and the fight begins. A man steps forward, wielding lances of flesh and blood, stabbing forward without mercy. A shadowy woman melds into the shadows before striking out from behind. A grotesque, half man half beast charges without relent, seeking to tear apart those who would challenge him. And finally a cloaked figure stands behind the melee, flames wreathing his body and seeking to char everyone but itself.

Julius slowly looked around the circle of hooded bodies. There were 8 people inside the circle of varying appearances, many looking rather normal (as normal as could be in a place like this) whereas others were very clearly physically warped. Well, he was sure that, if he looked for long enough, he would see how twisted the others truly were, but there was no time for that. This was a battle and only half of the group would leave the circle.

As the possibly chosen geared up to fight Julius stood where he was and tried to decide on a target. It would be safe to assume that his quota was one target, if only 4 of them could come out alive, and it would also be logical to assume the other candidates knew that, so, ignoring those not sound of mind, that would mean the other chosen would fight only one person as well. Although he supposed that he would need to watch out for attacks from other chosen with wide areas of effect. At any rate, since his stamina wasn't good, he didn't have much choice but to either put down one target or have someone take two. And he wasn't going to let go of this opportunity to closely study chosen in action, even if some were fake chosen.

To that end Julius went over the targets in his head. The fiery figure was out from the get-go, it was simply a bad match up for him. His methods of attacking from a distance would be more or less completely nullified. Julius could weather the flames to get close to the target, which would be good for him since physically they were probably quite close. But then he would be at a distinct disadvantage of having taken damage, and while he was likely to win, it was a little too much to risk when there were other targets he could go for instead. This also ruled out the woman who had melted into the shadows and the man with the lance. At best Julius could go one-for-one with the woman, driving a knife into her eye if she emerged from the shadows, but it would be difficult to avoid taking a heavy wound. The man with the lances was out for that reason too, as Julius could conceivably melt down the man's blood and flesh constructs but not before he took serious damage. Still, there was a more fundamental reason Julius didn't want to take them on. Because, while this was certainly a prime opportunity to see chosen in action, he wasn't a fan of wasting his time.

Julius began walking towards his target. What he had learned from the cult, through various methods of observation, was the nature of the powers he'd gained and that of his fellow chosen. There were, broadly speaking, 3 ways a power could manifest, through the body, the mind, or the soul. The 'how' of the manifestation was what interested Julius the most but he had no doubt that studying 2 out of 3 of these ways of power would only bring more questions. As he was now, powers stemming from soul corruption were impossible to study since there was no organ in the body pertaining to it. It was rather dubious as to whether or not it existed at all, but it was apparently where his powers had manifested from. Powers stemming from the mind were similarly inscrutable, despite having an obvious physical presence. The mind was simply too complex, giving very little away when taken from the dead, and being difficult to observe whilst still in the living. He estimated it would take several lifetimes to fully study the human brain, before even considering the warped minds of the cult. It would simply take too long to study, therefore, there was only one target that interested Julius.

He stopped in front of the man-beast, directing his hollow gaze at the man's physique. It could hardly be called a man now, a twisted monstrosity of flesh and bone, barely held together with wild instincts. The beast-man took Julius's stare as a challenge and barrelled towards the frail doctor. In response the blond haired man took a scalpel from his coat. The human body was an endless enigma, but Julius wasn't interested in questions he had no hope of answering. He would get his answers in time, he'd unlock the secrets of the body, mind, and the soul, if it existed. But to do all those things he had to make it out of this alive and intact.

As the beast-man lumbered closer, Julius held up his blade towards it. It seemed so small and fragile compared to the mountain of flesh charging toward him, but it was a tool he lived by. He knew it inside out, and he knew most of all that the flesh of man could never stand against it. It was the culmination of his life so far, and it would be the tool he used to cut open his path to the future.

Clémentine Lévesque

Sanities Demise, Outlands of Skorhn, Year of the Rising Sun
It's a feast, then?

---

Ah, how boring.

Standing among the eight crowd was probably someone who looked a bit out of place upon first glance. Standing demurely near the back of the gathered cultists, was a woman in a red dress. Blond hair fell to her shoulders, a slight frown on her lips as she held her hands clasped together behind her as the proceedings went on. Upon first glance, the woman seemed calm. Incredibly so, but it wouldn't take a keen eye to see her hands gripping together tightly, as though one was attempting to hold in some sort of anger or stop themselves from shouting in pain.

A hunched figure made to move from the crowd, quickly ascending the steps. His voice creaked with age. A slow, gravelly tone that one would attribute to a wise man or elder. Of course, no such beings could be found in this den of degenerates, heh. Or perhaps they were the most wise ones? Well, such thoughts were not suited to her. She was here for a reason.

And she was oh so very, very hungry.

She silently stepped forward. Seven others with her. Tsk, tsk, too many? Did they plan this? As the others muttered and began arguing she merely watched. Fools. Fools the lot of them. Pathetic. Ah how irritating. Obscene. The revelry began quickly. The priest easily turning them against another. Honestly? She'd have simply loved to watch the ensuing scene, or kill them all and make little goblets from their skulls. No wait, she'd probably eat those too. Drink it in, aaaalll in and revel in it...but it seemed as though she couldn't have her way. Annoying.

With a bloodthirsty cry, the man wielding the lances struck towards her. She didn't even make an attempt at dodging. The spear sunk into her flesh, right where her heart should have been. He probably thought she was the prey here. After all, she was currently the least threatening looking one. Ah, what a pity.

"Geh..." She gave a muted, pain cry as the spear drove into her flesh, impaling her thoroughly on it. "...heh..." There was no blood from the wound. No shout of pain. No scream of a life ending. There was only a sigh, and with it a foul smell.

"Ahaha..." Clémentine's hand wrapped around one of the spears. The other grabbed the man by the face, gently caressing his cheek. Her soft flesh would have undoubtedly felt divine, but the smell from her breath and the words that came along with it would have made most men retch. "...you smell like a delicious appetizer."

The former noblewoman grabbed the man by the neck, nearly crushing his windpipe with strength her body shouldn't have. A swift, heavy blow that knocked him right off his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground on his hands and knees. While he recovered, Clémentine didn't seem to be in too much of a hurry. She pulled the spear from her chest, a putrid smelling black ichor staining her red dress.

"Thanks for the kebab. I'll nibble on it after the main course." Clémentine's body convulsed as the flesh around her wound began to twist and stretch, straining against its mortal prison, but by now the man had already gotten back to his feet, obviously realizing this wasn't going to be a simple matter as he had thought. He grabbed the second spear, having obviously not learned his lesson. With a growl, the man engaged her once more.

Might as well toy with him for a bit.

Angharad sat draped across one of her more physically impressive followers lap, sipping from a bottle of cheap red wine. Around her her most holy congregation lounged, most had drink of their own. Her lips split in a broad smile when she noted Brother Elric and Sister Ariette partaking in the pleasures of the flesh, languidly she rose intent on the coupling, lust in her eyes.
A hush spread through the crowd distracting her attentions, at the centre of the cavern a hunched figure stepped forth.

“You all know what is to happen” His words creaked with age. “Those of you who believe to be the chosen, step forward to the obelisks.”

Her followers came behind her as she stepped forth, the crowd parted before her, no doubt in awe of her grace and beauty. Her pet paladin assisted any who found themselves unable to move after gazing upon her sublime magnificence, an understandable ailment.

As 7 others stepped forward an angry muttering broke out among the crowd, not least among her followers. Angharad examined the other claimants with narrowed eyes.

“There can only be 4, half of these are heretics! Those of you who are the true chosen ones, slay your accusers and be made known to the Gleeful Eclipse!”

Time slid to a glacial stop and for a moment there was silence, one of the others broke it, they slipped into shadows, disappearing from sight. With a yell Angharad slung her bottle at the claimant across from her in what would most likely have been a knockout blow, she reassured herself, if said claimant had not burst into flame, vaporising said bottle. The other claimants quickly followed to action.

Muttering curses under her breath she took a hasty step back, now was the time for careful and considered action. She took a deep breath, shoulders back, lungs filled.
"KILL THEM ALL! TAKE THEIR STUFF!"
Her followers charged past her, screaming and flooded the field.

Atrius stood amongst the hooded figures of the blasted cult, the ones who took everything from him except for his life. He surprisingly stood out from the group of deviants and freaks because unlike most there wasn’t a physical abnormality in the man. All of his powers and changes originated from his broken mind. It took all of his self control to realize how bad it would be to attack now. Especially since, as the old hooded man said, he knew what was going to happen. The cloaked figure called upon those who believed themselves to be the chosen. Atrius lurched forward and slowly entered the area, along with seven others. There were some fakers in their midst it would seem. Not that the former mercenary minded, there was some pent up aggression he wanted to take out. And he would be damned again if he would let one of those fools take his place here.

The fighting commenced and Atrius jumped back as far away from the others as he could as he prepared his two swords. He watched as all of the others paired off into their own fights, other than one woman who led an army of her followers, and he was left with his opponent. A shadowy woman who sunk into the darkness. Atrius remained cautious and waited for his opponent to strike first. Which after a moment she did, an attempted backstab on her opponent. How vile, attacking from the shadows, but effective. Atrius blocked the attack with his blades and with a blast of wind magic she was blown away from him. With a wave of his hand five spikes of ice formed around him. ”Just die already.” He spoke as he sent the ice flying forward in an attempt to impale his opponent.