[IC] Of Crusade & Conjure [Blissy & Clumsywordsmith]

[Blissy]

"The Charred Earth Of Ole Nocterix.."

Horrors were an understatement to account to the vast conceptions contrived of Ole Nocterix's earthly compounds. For those that had appointed themselves scholarships of the black histories of the 'Night Realm', were hardly prudent in their own right. This was not the fault of mortal, nor immortal beings that had inhabited the wholesomeness of this land since before, or beyond record. Much of the ancient realms truths had been left buried beneath the perplexing mysteries of supposed agents that had taken account for the lands creation through various tale spoke against tale. Among these figures, there had been several gods, though knowing which god from the other, seemed like an only further derailing of the greater entitlement of which god was among the true. A question that bore no real answer, only devices desperately clinging to more cynical outlooks. That was because those that lived or 'invaded' within the essence of Ole Nocterix, were ever so quick to disclose truths spoken of their beliefs. 

Among rumor and near unending mystery for those inhabiting this realm of dusk and brimstone to uncover, there were some subtle truths that served to form guidance to civilization. Although those truths had not come without fray. For even men, the youngest of the 'living' residence of this realm, there was discrepancy. Despite their nature, humans had always been quick to point the finger of blame at the invasion of some other presence, their own nature gloried, absolute, and authorized by the threads that spun their very own essence. This earth did not belong to them, contrary to the rights and claims they had declared or demanded upon the strength of feuds of steel, or aristocracy of supposed royalty - another concept that felt near derived from the more feeble complexities of their own nature and necessity for declaring significance. This earth had not been made solely for them, and yet they deemed themselves worthy of such ideals as righteous inquisition and unrelenting arrogance. In some ways it was right of them to do just this. In others this sense of power craving inquiry may very well be the first of many keys that opened inevitable dooms of their own demise and the cataclysms that may transpire them. It was this particular sense of arrogance that had led to intrigue by their foes. For the foes of humanity seemed to enlist beyond simplest measure. 

Fiends, monsters, demons, even themselves and beyond, bound in opposition to the only species maintained by the subject of it's own mortality and the essence of it's fundamental qualities alone. Though in those humanity would remain indomitably true to the nature imbued within it. Humans, though strong of will and prosperous through population, were not the predominate species within this realm of arcane quality. Had this been so, the great tragedies that laid always ahead of them would be void of their threat, if only such fantastical ideals could be conjured by wish or desire. Knowledge, power, adaption, and civility on their side, they still remained entrenched by their own inevitable mortal circumstances, as their enemies of all places and all inhuman qualities had used this, above all against them. Although knowing when and how this threat of catastrophic meddling might affect them, was always the most dangerous of theories and concern spoken of those who may very well see their misfortune, as karma to a much greater means of lesson that may be understood within that disaster..

'Kalassa'. The birth region of mortals. The seed where the garden of humanity had been placed, to spread and grow beyond the presence of other life, often overlooked or just dematerialized entirely, once ideals and principles found light into the mind of first humans. A place where the first of men and women had first set foundation and stature to their generations to follow. A place that had grown prosperous by discovery, knowledge and will to stride beyond that in which seemed like the limit, only to span further and beyond, to new heights or desirable prosperity and civilization. Humans were cunning with their ability to adapt. Their civilizations ever changing and their presence ever growing. Although among their strengths, they bore a plentiful more weaknesses as the conditions of mortality were for all of those given it's gift of precious life. Economy caused them to turn on one another. Separation had resolved to resentment for the brotherhoods and sisterhoods of their kinds, and the ultimate peak of their arrogance had led them to seclude themselves by the right of 'faction', or rule of 'reign'. For together they were powerful. A threat even to the ancient breeds that lived within the dusky earth of Ole Nocterix's vast terrains and estranged regions, or had seemingly for portals from beyond these archaic components of the colossal earth. Though by division, their competence had proven to wither indefinitely, as their perception became ultimately enshrouded by the defect of their own conceit. 

The empires of Kalassa had grown vast. So vast that in fact their stretch of reach of cities and towns, had split adrift into several other regions that made up the outer and much more barren territories of the 'charred earth' - or so the name had been teased by those believing the ancient rumors behind the foundation origins of Ole Nocterix's creation. Their unity divided, the right of man had come to know the difference of others, as their stone towers and castles expanded beyond the limit of their grasp. With such expansion they had been doomed to discover more then they could ever possibly imagine. Their politics and self righteous sense of entitlement did not save them from the first 'Night War's' among the undead and worse. Their worst antagonists, those defined by the unknown, which slumbered in the darkest reaches and strides of the ancient earth and connections to realms it may umbilic, beyond. The humans decreed these others, these enemies of their own, as the 'shade touched', regardless of distinction or particular species. By the decree of men these outsiders were perceived as evil, abnormal and unethical bonds, by the practice of their traditions that opposed that of the mortals own and seemed to contrast and misconstrue the orders and principles placed into this earth by man. Naturally their ignorance led them to fear, their fear to assault and their assault to feud. It was during the first years of the Night War's that humans discovered their own limits against the wrath of their shadow foes, as the subtle ignorance of man began to spoil and bleed into an ocean of their deepest revelation yet. Although perhaps the most worrisome conclusion was accepting the flooding of that ocean, and understanding it would be forever beyond their control.

Eons had passed since the first ages of men and their feuds against fiends only branded as the 'Shade Touched'. While the strength of will carried through mortal generations had endured the struggles damned upon them by their sense of otherworldly opposition, this aegis of solidarity did not come without wither. Many lives had been lost. Entire cities lost to the ruins of history and war. Great conflicts rose from the disputes of Ximenes only spoken of in the most dire of context, or by the speak of legend or myth, scribbled curiously into tome for warning of failures that must not find repetition to those that may follow. Much had changed since the first ages of men and their rise to glory and fall to decimation, but what had not remained unchanged was their passion and aspiration to take back what had once been there's from the onslaught of their infernal foes..

[Blissy]

---

The Small Mountain City Of 'Norsteir'

“Another? Oh dear me, I do believe that makes..-” Spoke the words of a caretaker tasked with the duty of taking responsibility, to numbering something the survivors that had recently been flooding Norsteir's gates. As he spoke his tone seemed to decline into dismay at the notion of approximating the exact number to his count. The decimation of the neighboring capital city of Ashala had been beyond anything that the subservient lineage's of Norsteir had been ready to expect. The fury of the enemies of Kalassa had been undoubtedly growing within it's dismal persistence. For the pillage and destruction of monumental cities or empires had been only a thing of old terrible myths and unsettling legends.

“Why are we helping the Ashalion's anyway? What good have they done for us detached fractions, that have always chose not to bend to their cavalier of politics?” For whispers spoken of many in the smaller sub-city of Norsteir had been slipping astir, since the first days flames of cataclysm plagued what partial blue of sky had been left over the once rich territories of Ashala's prosperity that once lingered above the grand city of Ashala. To the Nosteirion's, the threat of what this might mean grew upon worrisome imagination, if only the layout of high terrain and precarious forestry, had not been within the place of the smaller faction of man's natural field of defense. The city built into the forestry of the old mountain laid detached from the shattered capital of Ashala. Smaller in nature and even less defended, but ultimately graced by natural defences, that the once proud city of stone walls and vast civilization was not within benefit to share.

“You forget. We stand on the foot of the elderly earthen mountain. Many have tried to decimate our lands before, armies even. Ashala's own pride and thrive for dominion was the inevitability of it's own demise. We smaller few are better then to let the avarice of expansion, or rule, get the better of us. If shade touched do come, they will succumb to the fury of the forest alike the many before them..” More speech, spoken from another that denounced the worry of impending threat, that might turn it's attention on the near sub-city of Norsteir. For conversation of worries and and concern had seemed to plague the often decent nature of Norsteir's once more subtle matters of dispute. Among the various bantering of village folk and specialized guards that went about their usual routines, to generate subtle soul to the town, the clicking steps of one unlike them, grew professed. Such steps had belonged to a woman, one dressed by almost an enigmatic essence of wardrobe that many knew often belonged to practitioners of arts beyond the simple understanding of most humans, dwelling in the complications of arcane quality. A hood shielded her features from the others that might peer upon them, but it wasn't like the unity of Norsteir was much in favor of strange figures or individuals. Everyone from here knew this woman by the distinction of her robes of red and black alone, their tailoring common among the mysterious 'Sisters Of Nine' - which had served to be Norsteir's greatest weapon against the fiends of it's opposition. Some called this woman a sorceresses, or so the tongues of the less wise might decree upon seeing her conjure the utmost arcane phenomenon. Others a witch, who might only disregard the meddle of her twisted practices at all, and some simply as someone of clerical gifts given by some older cynically conjured god, by the necessity to bring heavens miracles from fiction and into very true reality. Regardless as to what titles might grace her, that woman knew better then to flourish in inscriptions branded to her by the feeble few who would indefinitely agree that she were simply someone, of enchanted palpablity.

With those steps she took stride forward as if to the reach where ever it was that the cobble stone path beneath her meant to direct. The slip of whatever opinions she might bare on the decimation of Ashala's more recent fall, held by tight lips of crimson tacit. Ignoring such banter, she moved further down the path, and to the old monastery that had been Norsteir's most notary pinnacle of architecture. For the monastery of Norsteir was a versatile architectural structure that did much more then simply erect it's momentum as an icon of the town's more convoluted faiths of old. This monastery was the core of the Sisters Of Nine's operations, as well as the symbol of Norsteir's ever lasting hope and hallowed perseverance.

Arrival guided the shift of her steps from the front doors of entry and around the old structure that stood before her. Through the gentle gardens of twisted tangle-some moss trees and willow woods, she'd take the shift of her venture until she arrived at another door, only just revealed among the brush of nature that augmented around it, almost infusing itself with the old side building. The heave of wooden doors of tough fortification were tugged apart and into the depth of the small bleak room she'd step, to only travel down the spiral of shadowy stairs, only lit by the illumination of several small candles that remained mounted on the walls to greet the path of its visitor.

Down the steps she'd travel until she'd come to a small alcove of hallway decorated by old banners of red and black, baring symbols that only few had come to truly understand the allegiance that remained behind them. Beyond these banners and small torches of light there laid yet another door, in likeness to the one that led to the depth of this place, but partially smaller in nature. Opening it brought the tap of boot heels to a sharp end. Within the room behind this door remained a small almost cubicle of a room, a desk in the corner, a chair at it's side, several book cases littered with tomes that looked far beyond the age of the average archive of library, and finally a cote by a window – baring the slumbering occupation of a certain wounded yet unconscious knight.

At first the woman that stood before the slumbering knight did nothing else but idle above him, the light forward grace of her steps only closing the distance before him as the bleak lit interior of the room played with the gentle arrays of candle light the painted reflect to the interior stone walls within. At the edge of the bed she stood, the concealment of her face behind hood almost domineering over him, in observant, endless silence. Another moment slipped away and she'd force the veil of her hood down, revealing the woman that lay beneath. Gold of hair, eyes of precious blue, though tipped by a sense vigor with the way they contrasted against the dim candle light of the room. Skin of peachy colour partially pale, graced by the delicate beautiful and still ample youth that hid beneath the developed sense of maturity she wore behind the manifest of that effeminate face. Such was not the expectation of many who had come to be stranger to this woman, often considering something less innocent to be hiding behind that curtain of thaumaturgy she wore. And oh how they were most certainly right with that guess.

The young woman beneath the hood..

Shifting in place by her heels she'd gently rest herself on the edge of the bed, as the inquisition of her eyes swept over the peace of her companions slumber, leaving him to instead find a small bucket of water by the touch of her feet. Reaching for the bucket had her draw it nearer by reach of her hands, as her opposite hand reached into for the cloth inside, before the slip of curious fingers poked against the surface of the warm natural spring water that gave content to the bucket. Next she'd pull the cloth within from it's float and carefully drench it over the bucket, being careful not to wet the bed. Once the cloth was run thin of excessive water by the practice of light rinse, she'd gentle bring it over to the forehead of her silent protege, before ever so smoothly gracing it across the chill of his abnormally brisk forehead.. Watching through ever loyal silence as she only wondered when he might wake, if ever at all.

[Clumsywordsmith]

(I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought. Still I could not sleep. Lungs burning with the anticipation of a breath, I forced my way upward; thrashing arms pull me toward what passes for light – a shimmer, and then!-- the uncompromising feel of solid ice against my palm. I hammer with my fist, hand gone numb even as I smash it over and over again into the unyielding stuff. And then – only then – very gradually... does my vision begin to fade. The comforting warmth of death's cold embrace rescues me from the agony. The burning in my lungs drifts far, far away even as I find my thoughts swept into the darkness of that eternal void.)

It is dusk. Last, bloodshot rays of a lingering sun drawing their fingers across the bleak horizon. The misty grey of swirling smoke and ash seep across the gaps between lengthening shadows; a chill wind is in the air, and the unearthly sound of wailing, screaming voices floats up from the wooded foothills in the distance. A great plain – sea of dark-green grass slowly growing grey in the waning light – and striking a pale path across its length, a long cobbled road. Four roads converge upon the walls of a great, gated city – four roads spiral out toward the far points of the compass. Ashala. City of emperors. City of Gods.

(Yet no gods grace us with their presence now – nor have they ever, not in the living memory of any mortal being. And instead only the unholy surge of the demonic host advancing below; the scent of death and stench of fear driven toward us with the growing winds. And we – silent grey company in the midst of Ashala's mighty host – stand ready as the wardens of old. Blades in hand, searing blaze from the light of scriven runes across helms and armour holding the darkness back. Etched totems surrounding us in a ring, and the quiet sound of the earth thrums beneath our feet with the crescendo of a slowly growing power.

The first wave crashes into the waiting men below. Fear and terror notwithstanding, the grim determination of men defending their home – their very lives and existence as a race – holds them fast. The howling abominations of the demon thralls hurl themselves upon spear and pike with abandon, three more springing to take the place of each fallen. Thus, little by little, the sons of men find themselves driven up the hill toward our eager weapons. Taking the last few yards before the crest of the hill, they fall back in good order through gaps in our own lines – fresh reserves stepping up from behind as the first defenders find time to regroup.

But it is no mere band of rebels we fight today – nor even some barbaric horde or rival empire – for the moment our men have regained the safety of their own lines, a new force is through into the fray. Monstrous beasts – hideous and huge, things of charred hide and spiteful horns – charge toward our waiting battle line. With them come the Demonic Lords: creatures of fire, ice and plague. Death stalks cloaked along the flanks, ghostly apparitions appearing just long enough to strike their hapless victims, before vanishing again to the shadows.

Our totems hold the worst of the charge at bay, creatures slowing even as the ground rumbles and shakes beneath the strain of the interwoven spells. For a moment longer it holds – rumble beneath shifting to a pulsing drone, like some huge metal cord pulled taut and then plucked.

Then it snaps. Hideous laughter screaming through in the wake of a chill wind, shards of biting ice and snow tearing across my face. Frost laces its way across the ground even as I pull closed the visor of my helmet, image of the runes burning in my mind as my I fall into the quiet contemplation of battle.)

Even as the Empire's legions give way all around, strength of man gradually fading against the advance of their relentless foes, still the fell-handed Stewards of Ashala stand their ground, closeknit wall of flesh and steel and runic wards holding back the greater press of the demon host. Still, no power might last forever against that might – and gradually, one by one, the men are cut down – glow fading from the runes as their will falters, inevitable death approaching.

Until, finally, there is only one. Struggling still. And though the charred and frozen corpses of comrades lay in a pile all about – sprinkled amongst the lumbering shapes of their fallen enemies – the figure fights still, light blazing with an unfettered fury. Bright fire of keen blade striking time and time again upon his indomitable foe. A creature – vaguely humanoid in shape – but formed of icey fire, crystalline veins pulsing with an unholy blue. Back and forth across the ruined hilltop they surge, until – at the last – even as the rune-etched blade plunges into the Demon's chest, the creature clutches at the heart of its opponent, left arm shimmering an ethereal blue as it plunges through armour and flesh alike, clawing at the plateclad breast...)

(And then I am awake again. Or so it seems. Stark grey of the Lyceum walls from my youth, stone stacked atop stone to the untidy grey of ancient slate roof. So near it seemed – yet so very far away... and I stood upon a bridge in the midst of the garden pond, and watched the edge of a raindrop go sliding down, down my finger and toward the pool of water below. Only to land with a -plop- and the little ripples of approaching laughter. Laughter. I -knew- that voice, I thought. Though when I glanced up all that I saw was the icy grin of that ever laughing demon, and the laughter drew into a long and wailing howl. The sound of glass against stone. Of ice shattering across a marble floor.

I clutch my ears, fear and panic overtaking my senses as I turn, step – bridge gone!-- and go splashing into the frigid pool below. I sink like a stone, kicking in futile protest against the weight pulling me down. The laughter only echoes louder in my ears: I was drowning, drowning beneath the dark blue of some frigid ocean – water filled my mouth, my lungs... each sputtering gasp a mockery of the one before, yet still my body fought.

Again, and again! And again the ice above... and this time – this time I stretch forth my arm, focus my will and push -through- the ice above. Come crashing through the frigid depths into the sunny warmth of another midsummer's day – and grasping for all my worth I cling to the hope of escape. The world shifts... and finally, I think, I am awake.)



It is quite without warning that the silent man – a moment ago sleeping quite peacefully -- his even, steady breaths giving no hint of the hidden turmoil within – opens his eyes with a start, gasps several times as attempting to breath underwater, before snatching at the waiting woman's arm, grip surprisingly strong for one ill so long. The slate grey of his searching eyes flit uncertainly about the room – as though he were still struggling to piece together his surroundings – until at last they seem to settle upon the woman at his bedside. It takes a moment for any kind of recognition to take hold, until eventually – some semblance of sanity seeming to return – he releases her arm, straightens a little in the cot and coughs. Manages to ask – words rasping from between ragged breaths:

“Where... is this? And who...” his gaze now returns to the woman as he bluntly continues: “Might... you be?”