Post by Castellian on Jun 22, 2006 15:36:56 GMT -5
Diiroehn does not enter the wreckage site by any conventional means of travel; instead appearing as an apparition, a horrid and ungodly sight, before becoming transverse to reality –his physical form taken. No living person is recognized, seen even, twin orbs of tombstone gliding across the dismayed image before him, yet the lich seems unfazed, indifferent to the dreadfulness that occurred here in negative manner; instead basking in it, as if the cruelty of ruins and slain made him thrive. The grin, always present and portrayed, appeared more-so sneer-like than ever, mocking the visage in its entirety –there would be no contortion of it even if the animate possessed the ability. Other two present, one an ebon masterpiece, the other his vampriss lover, were unconcerned for, unseen to the decadent sights of the unnatural and corrupted being.
Castellian D'Onri waited, his powerful frame perched atop the roan-coated stallion that so often bore him now. Rusher, his name derived by how easily he had been taught to charge, shifted with an animal’s bestial impatience. Massive, over eighteen hands tall and gifted with a remarkable breadth of breast, the animal was clad in black-steel barding that mirrored his master’s own. Castellian, his armor, a blackened iron scribed with the harshly shaped runes of his people, reflected slivers of golden sunlight as they struck the few polished surfaces. For hundreds of yards his keen eyes peered, narrowed to slice over the shifting tall-grasses and peer through the hole that had been torn in Cenril's outer wall. The General would not dare approach the scene just yet, but rather, allow the Liche looming amidst the carnage to work unimpeded amidst the ruined tower. Lingering, twenty yards toward Kelay, the remnants of his undead legion lingered. Their decaying forms swayed slightly against the breeze, rotted faces mournful, their purpose bound to the Drow's command.
Tenebrae was hidden in a pall of shadows, those inky tendrils that passed for her cloak to the undiscerning eye now flattened to her shape; their nature, true to the maker of both darknesses and vampiress alike, causing the perception of others to slide from her form, a glitch in their awareness. Garbed in this attire, she’d managed to slip by guards and troops, silent footfalls of the habitual predator and her ability to meld with the mundane scenery effecting her passage through them. Now, following her Lord, she stood pressed to the side of the outer wall to which Castellian's sight was trained, icy gaze flitting across the devastation.
Diiroehn laughs –he could not help himself. The very noise wasn’t the norm of the mirthful noise that pleasantly plays on humanoid ears; but instead played grimly, mirthlessly, as if an instrument of bleak depression, of hopeless callousness, a wicked pervasion to even the most sinister of the living. It was a funereal diapason of demoralizing infliction, and it strung like the former; discontent with life itself. Accompanied is the sweeping of his cadaverous appendages –upper, that is- sinuous digits outstretched in glorified sanguine, the very fluid that seeped from them. His façade proved insidious and feral, a predator of unholy and remarkably evil talents; and fully malicious enough to employ them. And in turn, his ragged body began to eclipse in shadowy caliginosity.
Tenebrae ~~ Shuddering, the necromancer wrapped her arms tightly about her slim frame; no chill wind the cause of it, but rather a gut-felt tremor that, unknownst to her, coincided with the Lich’s grim burst of humour. She sensed fell magics, the crackle of power acrid as the taste of impending storms on the flat of her tongue. This day, Fate rode forward as surely as the drow Lord on his stallion, and Tenebrae was swept before it once more. Eyes alight with anticipation, she was content this once to observe.
Diiroehn‘s body is now encased within the veil of bleak shadows, un-penetrated by mortal oculus. Then, as if a clap of thunder, it dissipated. Unreal is the understatement; as tremors transpired. And with them came the undisputable show of immense power in the form of mass beings. Originated from the slain and severed among the rubble, they rose; mouths agap like the first, eyes unfocused, skin clammy and dead. Alive in body, dead in mind, these servants arise once more to serve the army, effectively tripling its numbers. But then came the terrible roar…
From the battered rubble rise Castellian’s legion, thousands strong. They are a mockery, an abomination of unrivalled proportions. Amidst them are the shambling remnants of his former army, grisly and skeletal creatures with tattered flesh and rusted armor. The freshly risen, dead only days now, stand far more terrible. Sun-bloated, their blanched carcasses lumber along on swollen feet. Blood, coagulated and congealed, spills from the wounds that criss-cross their pouched bodies. The stench of the fallen Flaming Claw warriors is ungodly, unripe tissues and ripe death that clings to even the buildings the stand in the shadow of. And then, sounding over the rooftops were the remaining tower’s bells, clanging their alarm and rallying Cenril’s defenders to the walls once more. With the reigns of Rusher gripped in a gauntlet-clad hand, the regal Drow guides it to turn toward the ranks filing into the streets nearby while his other jerks from the strap along his broad back the length of his mountain-forged axe. The brand, riddled with archaic runes, is leveled sharply toward the waiting legion of Flaming Claw soldiers before his sabatons find his mighty stallion’s flanks and nurse him into a charge. The distance is closed with remarkable ease, carried on the equestrian’s powerful strides and sounding off the ground with the ominous impact of iron-clad hooves on battered flagstones. With the bells muted under the cries of the undead ranks, the General leads the charge onward into the waiting shield-wall of the gathered defenders. The impact is resounding, armor rattling as bodies drive headlong into one another. From the length of spears bodies are thrust back, lifted from their feet to be further impaled before cast to the ground. The shield wall is incapable of holding under the wave of corpses, Castellian’s armored mount throwing bodies beneath his lethal hooves before it is surrounded, shoulder-deep in struggling warriors. The General, leading his army as faithfully as he would if they were alive, slashes out the broad blades of his axe first to his left, then right, claiming the heads of unfortunate souls that saw it fit to challenge him. The blades, black-iron and whetted to a razor’s edge cleave through armor and tissue alike, sending great gouts of fresh-spilled blood into the air with each lethal pass. Briefly, the austere-featured General lifts his gaze to search out Diiroehn, locking his stark gaze on the horror’s own before allowing a simple inclination of his head, signaling for the Lord of the Dead to mount his assault on the remaining tower.
[To be continued...]
Castellian D'Onri waited, his powerful frame perched atop the roan-coated stallion that so often bore him now. Rusher, his name derived by how easily he had been taught to charge, shifted with an animal’s bestial impatience. Massive, over eighteen hands tall and gifted with a remarkable breadth of breast, the animal was clad in black-steel barding that mirrored his master’s own. Castellian, his armor, a blackened iron scribed with the harshly shaped runes of his people, reflected slivers of golden sunlight as they struck the few polished surfaces. For hundreds of yards his keen eyes peered, narrowed to slice over the shifting tall-grasses and peer through the hole that had been torn in Cenril's outer wall. The General would not dare approach the scene just yet, but rather, allow the Liche looming amidst the carnage to work unimpeded amidst the ruined tower. Lingering, twenty yards toward Kelay, the remnants of his undead legion lingered. Their decaying forms swayed slightly against the breeze, rotted faces mournful, their purpose bound to the Drow's command.
Tenebrae was hidden in a pall of shadows, those inky tendrils that passed for her cloak to the undiscerning eye now flattened to her shape; their nature, true to the maker of both darknesses and vampiress alike, causing the perception of others to slide from her form, a glitch in their awareness. Garbed in this attire, she’d managed to slip by guards and troops, silent footfalls of the habitual predator and her ability to meld with the mundane scenery effecting her passage through them. Now, following her Lord, she stood pressed to the side of the outer wall to which Castellian's sight was trained, icy gaze flitting across the devastation.
Diiroehn laughs –he could not help himself. The very noise wasn’t the norm of the mirthful noise that pleasantly plays on humanoid ears; but instead played grimly, mirthlessly, as if an instrument of bleak depression, of hopeless callousness, a wicked pervasion to even the most sinister of the living. It was a funereal diapason of demoralizing infliction, and it strung like the former; discontent with life itself. Accompanied is the sweeping of his cadaverous appendages –upper, that is- sinuous digits outstretched in glorified sanguine, the very fluid that seeped from them. His façade proved insidious and feral, a predator of unholy and remarkably evil talents; and fully malicious enough to employ them. And in turn, his ragged body began to eclipse in shadowy caliginosity.
Tenebrae ~~ Shuddering, the necromancer wrapped her arms tightly about her slim frame; no chill wind the cause of it, but rather a gut-felt tremor that, unknownst to her, coincided with the Lich’s grim burst of humour. She sensed fell magics, the crackle of power acrid as the taste of impending storms on the flat of her tongue. This day, Fate rode forward as surely as the drow Lord on his stallion, and Tenebrae was swept before it once more. Eyes alight with anticipation, she was content this once to observe.
Diiroehn‘s body is now encased within the veil of bleak shadows, un-penetrated by mortal oculus. Then, as if a clap of thunder, it dissipated. Unreal is the understatement; as tremors transpired. And with them came the undisputable show of immense power in the form of mass beings. Originated from the slain and severed among the rubble, they rose; mouths agap like the first, eyes unfocused, skin clammy and dead. Alive in body, dead in mind, these servants arise once more to serve the army, effectively tripling its numbers. But then came the terrible roar…
From the battered rubble rise Castellian’s legion, thousands strong. They are a mockery, an abomination of unrivalled proportions. Amidst them are the shambling remnants of his former army, grisly and skeletal creatures with tattered flesh and rusted armor. The freshly risen, dead only days now, stand far more terrible. Sun-bloated, their blanched carcasses lumber along on swollen feet. Blood, coagulated and congealed, spills from the wounds that criss-cross their pouched bodies. The stench of the fallen Flaming Claw warriors is ungodly, unripe tissues and ripe death that clings to even the buildings the stand in the shadow of. And then, sounding over the rooftops were the remaining tower’s bells, clanging their alarm and rallying Cenril’s defenders to the walls once more. With the reigns of Rusher gripped in a gauntlet-clad hand, the regal Drow guides it to turn toward the ranks filing into the streets nearby while his other jerks from the strap along his broad back the length of his mountain-forged axe. The brand, riddled with archaic runes, is leveled sharply toward the waiting legion of Flaming Claw soldiers before his sabatons find his mighty stallion’s flanks and nurse him into a charge. The distance is closed with remarkable ease, carried on the equestrian’s powerful strides and sounding off the ground with the ominous impact of iron-clad hooves on battered flagstones. With the bells muted under the cries of the undead ranks, the General leads the charge onward into the waiting shield-wall of the gathered defenders. The impact is resounding, armor rattling as bodies drive headlong into one another. From the length of spears bodies are thrust back, lifted from their feet to be further impaled before cast to the ground. The shield wall is incapable of holding under the wave of corpses, Castellian’s armored mount throwing bodies beneath his lethal hooves before it is surrounded, shoulder-deep in struggling warriors. The General, leading his army as faithfully as he would if they were alive, slashes out the broad blades of his axe first to his left, then right, claiming the heads of unfortunate souls that saw it fit to challenge him. The blades, black-iron and whetted to a razor’s edge cleave through armor and tissue alike, sending great gouts of fresh-spilled blood into the air with each lethal pass. Briefly, the austere-featured General lifts his gaze to search out Diiroehn, locking his stark gaze on the horror’s own before allowing a simple inclination of his head, signaling for the Lord of the Dead to mount his assault on the remaining tower.
[To be continued...]