• This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

Reader mode
The impact was undeniable. The ice spear shot through the air, gleaming with an unnatural, frigid energy, and struck true. It pierced deep into one of the Augur’s massive clawed hands, driving through the layers of shifting, eldritch sinew like a frozen dagger through rotted flesh. A loud, unnatural crack echoed through the battlefield as shards of ice splintered outward, locking in place, anchoring the limb in a moment of unexpected stillness.

For the first time since its ascent into something greater, the Augur faltered.

The massive entity jerked its hand back instinctively, but the spear held, ice webbing outward, anchoring the wound like chains forged from winter’s breath. A low, guttural noise rumbled from its form—not a scream, not pain, but something closer to sheer frustration.

Its golden visage did not shift. Its serene, deceptive beauty remained unbothered. But from beneath, from the other side—the horror hidden in its duality—came the response.

The fabric of its falsehood rippled. Its monstrous limbs twitched, claws curling, the blackened, chitinous edges flexing against the light. The illusion of control cracked, just for a moment, and the entity decided.

The ice could be broken. The wound could be ignored. But this? This was an insult.

ROLL FOR INITIATIVE.​

The lowest roll among the combatants becomes Augur’s next target.

Ties: If multiple players roll the same lowest number, the Augur will choose based on its own twisted logic—who is weakest, who is most vulnerable, or who has defied it most.

The battlefield was still for only a breath.

And then the hunt resumed.
 
The Augur did not hesitate. Its form shifted, the wounded hand twitching, trembling, then—detaching.

The limb, massive and gnarled, blackened with chitinous ridges and twisting sinew, peeled away from the entity’s body with a sickening, unnatural sound—like flesh unstitching from itself, like bone being ripped from its socket. It did not fall immediately. For a moment, it hovered, as if suspended by unseen strings, its final motion eerily deliberate.

Then, with a sudden lurch, it plummeted.

The battlefield erupted in chaos as the massive limb crashed downward, blotting out the sky for those below. A shadow of pure death descended upon the battlefield, its impact zone vast, threatening to swallow everything beneath it.

The Dinosaurkin warriors barely had time to react. Some tried to dodge, others froze in place, their instincts failing them in the face of something so immense.

And Hedra—separated, lost in the fray—was directly beneath it.

She had only seconds to move.
Roll 1d12:
6+ → She escapes just in time, diving clear of the massive limb.
1-5 → She reacts too late. The weight of the Augur’s discarded hand will crash down upon her.
 
Hedra turned at the last second, her instincts flaring as the shadow consumed her. Too late.

The impact was instantaneous. The Augur’s discarded hand, a mass of blackened sinew and claw, came down with an earth-shaking crash. The sound of crushing bone, snapping armor, and the muffled cry of those caught beneath it was swallowed by the sheer weight of the collision.

Dust and debris erupted outward, sending nearby warriors stumbling. The battlefield quaked as the fallen limb flattened the ground beneath it, a grotesque monument of destruction. The fifteen Dinosaurkin trapped in its wake never had a chance—snuffed out in an instant, their bodies reduced to nothing but shattered remains beneath the crushing weight.

And Hedra…

There was no scream. No final cry. Just silence.

The battlefield did not pause. There was no time for grief, no moment to mourn.

Only war.
 
Mordecai’s eyes tracked Avarice, noting the shift in him—not just his returned sight, but his presence. There was something sharper now, something steadier. The trembling, uncertain fox that had once encased himself in ice was gone. What stood before him now was someone who had finally realized what had been inside him all along.

A small, fleeting smile touched Mordecai’s lips as he watched the ice spear tear through the Augur’s limb, sending it crashing down with devastating force.

Then the world shook.

The battlefield roared with impact, a cacophony of destruction as the Augur’s severed limb flattened everything beneath it. The weight of it swallowed Hedra, swallowed the Dinosaurkin warriors, swallowed lives in an instant.

There was no time to mourn.

Mordecai felt Hedra’s presence vanish from the world, and yet, war did not stop for grief.

He forced his breathing steady, his jaw clenching as his focus snapped back to Avarice. He gave the fox a firm nod, his expression shifting between pride and urgency.

“Well done,” he said, his voice firm but carrying something rare—approval. "You'll have to show me what else you picked up in your frozen time."

The moment was fleeting.

His attention snapped back to the Augur. Wrath’s energy surged within him, their unity sharpened, their purpose singular.

He looked down at Ephraim one last time—a thoughtful look, a silent nod. Then, to Avarice.

"Avarice, we need to move fast. Find your openings, strike hard, and watch your back. It's far from over."

His eyes flicked to the fallen arm. It still pulsed, still thrummed with something deeper. Faith. Worship. Power. Even severed, it held remnants of the Augur’s presence, a piece of its divinity that still tried to root itself in the world.

Mordecai’s pupils thinned, his breath slow and measured. Wrath felt it too. The hunger. The need.

The shadow surged.

Darkness shot from beneath Mordecai like a torpedo, Wrath’s presence barreling toward the arm with an insatiable force. The tendrils of blackness wrapped over the limb, consuming, devouring, drinking in the raw energy left behind. The battlefield darkened as the shadows rippled outward, curling, spreading like ink spilled across stone.

Mordecai braced himself, muscles tensing as Wrath absorbed it all—faith, remnants of godhood, power once meant to be eternal. It poured into them like a flood, and Mordecai clenched his fists, keeping control, keeping himself grounded against the weight of what they were taking. Wrath growled, his form looming larger, more feral, his edges jagged with sheer force.

Mordecai exhaled, steadying himself, then focused in.

"Come on, Wrath. For Nyx," he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the roar of battle.

He lifted his hands, weaving an invisible force between them, shadows twisting and coiling into something tangible. It grew, larger and larger, its form crackling with restrained energy, a howling wisp of dark power coalescing into shape.

Then, with a sharp motion, Mordecai swung his arm over his shoulder and hurled it forward.

A wave of screaming shadow energy surged toward one of the Augur’s remaining arms.
 
The Augur reeled, its form convulsing as the wave of shadow energy collided with another of its massive, clawed arms. The impact was immediate, undeniable, inescapable. The limb twisted, its golden surface warping, the illusion fracturing as the truth beneath was exposed—a writhing, sinewy horror, now dissolving into black mist as Wrath’s power consumed it whole.

For a moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

The Augur screamed.

A sound like shattering reality, a deafening, piercing wail that shook the very air itself. It was not merely sound—it was force, raw and suffocating, an eruption of divine agony that crashed into the battlefield like a wave of pure distortion.

The world shuddered.

The earth beneath them splintered.

The Augur’s massive form lurched, staggering as another of its sacred limbs was ripped away, its celestial presence defiled by Wrath’s consuming force. The once-flawless radiance of its front dimmed, its golden visage cracking, flickering between its false divinity and the twisted, skeletal truth that hid beneath.

It was losing control.

It would not let this stand.

And yet—without its limbs, without its tethers, the god was faltering.

It howled, its voice an echoing command to reality itself, and from the remnants of its sundered limbs, the battlefield roared back.

The force of the Augur’s cry sent shockwaves outward, an unseen blast of power ripping through the air, smashing against the warriors standing beneath it. The very pressure of its presence, its unraveling divinity, threatened to send every living thing crashing to the ground, deafened, disoriented—helpless.

A moment of vulnerability. A second of stillness.
STEADYING CHECK – ALL PLAYERS ROLL A d12.
  • 8+ → They withstand the force, managing to hold their ground.
  • 4-7 → They are staggered but can recover quickly.
  • 1-3 → They are knocked down or dazed, temporarily disabled in the fight.
If Mordecai or Ephraim roll a 1-3, they get 1 re-roll attempt.
 
Mordecai braced himself as the ground convulsed beneath him, his boots grinding against the fractured earth to keep steady. The Augur’s scream clawed through the air, piercing and unnatural, a sound that did not just resonate—it attacked. A force of sheer, divine agony that rattled his skull, threatened to split the world apart.

He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply, willing himself to stand firm. He had heard worse. He had endured worse.

Avarice hit the ground beside him, knocked off his feet by the force of the wail. Mordecai barely spared a glance, knowing the fox would push himself back up, but his gaze lingered for just a second—long enough to ensure he was still breathing, still moving.

Then his eyes snapped back to the Augur.

Wrath’s presence grew. The shadows twisted at Mordecai’s feet, pulsing outward like a beast uncoiling from its slumber. A jagged, monstrous form stretched from the darkness in front of him, as if Wrath himself were standing in defiance of the zealite.

"YOU WILL FALL AGAIN, AUGUR."​

Wrath’s voice boomed, reverberating across the battlefield, an undeniable force of rage and memory. The Augur had shattered worlds. It had twisted faith. It had rewritten reality to suit its design.

And yet, it had lost before.

"I’VE SLAIN YOU BEFORE, AND I’LL DO IT AGAIN," Wrath roared, his presence bleeding into Mordecai’s own, their wills intertwined, their fury one. "YOU ARE NOTHING AGAINST US."

Mordecai smirked at the last comment. It wasn’t just Wrath anymore. It wasn’t just him.

It was them.

Finally together.
 
1738466817561.pngThe Augur shifted, its form rippling as if reality itself were bending around it.

The golden mask that had remained so eerily still now twisted, splitting open at its center.

A sound, not quite a whisper and not quite a scream, resonated from within as the mask peeled apart like the petals of an unnatural bloom. Where there should have been emptiness, there was instead a mouth—an abyss lined not with flesh or teeth, but raw, searing radiance.

The glow within intensified, surging outward in a concentrated beam of blinding white, so bright it felt as though it carried the very concept of sunlight into this world that had long since abandoned it. The beam struck the ground in an instant, carving through stone and soil alike, not with fire, not with heat, but with the sheer overwhelming force of belief. Where it touched, the earth itself did not burn—it vanished. Entire chunks of terrain erased from existence, leaving only smooth, empty void where there had once been battlefield.

The ray swept forward like a divine scythe, splitting across the battlefield in jagged lines, hunting, seeking. More of Ashen’s soldiers were caught in its path, some barely given the chance to scream before they were swallowed by nothingness. Their forms did not crumble, did not char—they simply ceased.

And then it turned.

Mordecai. Avarice. Ephraim.

The beam split, fragmenting into three separate streams, each one locking onto its target. It was not simply an attack—it was a decree. A command that they should not exist. The Augur had marked them, and reality itself threatened to obey.
The Augur’s golden mask splits open, revealing a mouth that emits a blinding beam of raw divine energy. The beam does not burn—it erases. As it sweeps across the battlefield, it annihilates everything in its path, including more of Ashen’s soldiers. Then, the beam fractures into three separate streams, each one locking onto Mordecai, Avarice, and Ephraim, marking them for destruction; it is currently traveling towards them across the battlefield.
 
Mordecai saw it coming.

The Augur’s mask split open, and the blinding abyss within surged with raw, searing radiance.

Before the beam could reach them, Mordecai stepped forward. A single, instinctive motion—placing himself between Avarice, between Ephraim, between the light and those it sought to consume.

His teeth clenched as his hands shot outward, fingers twisting in sharp, practiced motions. Wrath surged through him, a flood of darkness curling beneath his feet, snapping to his call.

"Not today," he snarled, his voice layered with something deeper, something ancient.

The air around him darkened.

Shadows, thick and alive, billowed upward. A mass of writhing blackness erupted from the ground before him, taking shape in an instant—a wall covering. A towering, shifting barrier of pure shadow, its edges fraying, curling, coiling like a living thing.
 
The Augur’s light crashed against the barrier of shadows, and for a moment, the battlefield was split between two forces—divine radiance and pure Wrath. The dark wall writhed as the beams pressed into it, not with fire, not with heat, but with sheer overwhelming force. Cracks spiderwebbed through the shifting black mass, each layer breaking and reforming as Mordecai fought to keep the defense intact. The weight of the light did not relent. It pressed downward, collapsing, each beam attempting to carve through the darkness, threatening to consume everything behind it.

Ephraim stood just behind Mordecai, her breath uneven, eyes locked on the battle unfolding inches away. She had nowhere else to go, no option but to trust in the barrier, in him. Her fingers clenched at the fabric near her side, an instinctive grip of tension.

Avarice was slower to move. The scream had rattled through him, still ringing in his ears, making the world unsteady beneath his feet. He pushed himself up with a trembling arm, his breath short, struggling to regain focus. The weight of everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the sheer magnitude of what they were facing—had knocked him off balance. But the ice within him was still there. He could feel it pulsing, waiting.

Across the battlefield, Eoghan hoisted Ashen upright, steadying him after the Augur’s voice had left them both shaken. The Spinosaurus’s sharp gaze flickered toward the towering entity, toward the beams of light pressing into the battlefield. His instincts screamed—if those rays broke through, they wouldn’t just stop.

He didn't hesitate. Reaching for his bow, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and took aim at the gaping maw of light. His fingers tightened, muscles coiled with precision. One shot. One moment. His mind blocked out everything else—the battlefield, the carnage, the chaos. Just the Augur. Just the arrow.

He loosed the shot.

Rolling d12 → 6+ to successfully disrupt the attack.
Eoghan’s arrow sliced through the battlefield, a perfect arc cutting toward the Augur’s open mask. The moment it struck, it did not simply bounce away—it was engulfed in the blinding radiance, but for the briefest instant, it was enough. The light wavered, the beams flickering as the Augur’s focus faltered.

The pressure against Mordecai’s barrier lessened, the cracks in the shadow wall halting their spread as the force pressing down relented. The three beams, once perfectly locked onto their targets, wavered—briefly unfocused, misaligned, skimming across the battlefield rather than driving straight through their intended marks.

Across the battlefield, Eoghan barely lowered his bow, his breath steady despite the impossible shot he had just made. The Augur recoiled, the movement subtle but real—a moment of hesitation, of irritation. The mask twisted slightly, its hollow gaze shifting now—not toward Mordecai, not toward the battlefield.

Toward the archer.

The Augur had noticed him.
 
Mordecai gasped as the crushing weight of the divine light finally relented, his shadow wall holding firm for just a moment longer before shattering apart like fractured glass. Darkness peeled away, dispersing into curling wisps, leaving only the raw, open battlefield before him. His knees buckled slightly, exhaustion creeping in as he struggled to steady himself. His breath came hard, shoulders rising and falling in uneven motions.

He barely registered the shifting ground beneath his palms as he crumpled onto his side for a moment, his muscles shaking under the strain. He forced himself not to linger. His eyes flicked back, scanning quickly for Ephraim and Avarice. Still standing. Still breathing. Relief flickered through him, but there was no time to feel it fully.

The Augur’s attention had shifted.

Mordecai followed its gaze, his own eyes narrowing as he spotted Eoghan across the battlefield, bow still raised, posture unwavering despite the impossible shot he had just landed. The Augur’s mask had twisted, its hollow gaze now locked onto the archer.

"There, that's my chance." His voice was barely above a breath, more for himself than anyone else.

Forcing himself to his feet, he ignored the tremor in his legs, the leaden weight dragging at his limbs. He pushed forward, each step driving through exhaustion, cutting through weakness with sheer force of will. He would rest when it was over. When they were still alive.

He closed the distance as much as he could, pulling his arm back in a sharp motion before snapping it forward, palm clenched tight. The air around him darkened as shadow surged upward, twisting like a blade drawn from the depths. He felt the strain immediately—his body protesting, his hands shaking—but he pushed through, forcing the darkness into form, willing it to strike at the Augur’s remaining arms before it could regain its hold on the battlefield.

The shadows surged upward in a single, sweeping motion, curving through the air like a reaper’s scythe. The jagged arc of darkness carved toward the Augur’s arm, slicing clean and sharp, trailing wisps of void in its wake. Where it struck, the divine flesh shuddered, the force of the cut rippling through the limb like a blade severing through fate itself.
 
Last edited:
The Augur recoiled, its form convulsing as the third arm withered, twisted, and tore away under the force of Mordecai’s strike. The severed limb did not fall like flesh—it unraveled, its golden light twisting violently into spiraling wisps before collapsing into dust. The battlefield trembled at the loss, a heavy pulse of energy radiating outward as if the very foundation of the Augur’s presence had been wounded.

3 ARMS REMAINING

A sound, deep and unnatural, reverberated through the air—not a scream, but something worse. A hollow, distorted wail, like a choir of voices layered over one another, each speaking in tongues that did not belong to this world. The Augur did not bleed, did not falter like a mortal thing. But it felt the loss.
The golden mask of its front face tilted downward, its gaze locking onto Mordecai. The cracks along its surface shimmered, shifting subtly, as if something beneath was stirring, pressing outward. The celestial glow within its hollow sockets burned brighter, its presence straining against the battlefield itself.

Now steadied by Eoghan, Ashen plants his feet firmly against the fractured battlefield. He takes a slow breath, grounding himself—not just in the physical sense, but in the way only a Dinosaurkin can, feeling the tremors beneath the earth, the rhythm of battle carved into the land itself.

The Augur had lost two arms already, but its weight still pressed into the battlefield, divine energy sinking into the cracked stone beneath them. Ashen could feel it—where the god’s presence had anchored itself, where its steps had left an impact, where the ground was weaker than it should be.

He would use that.

Slamming his hands down onto the earth, he channels his power into the stone, sending a controlled seismic rupture racing toward the Augur’s base. The goal wasn’t to knock it over outright—that was impossible—but to destabilize it, throw off its stance, force it to shift its weight just as Mordecai’s shadow spear strikes.

If the Augur wavered, even for a second, it could leave an opening for a more devastating blow.
  • Roll a d6
  • 1-2: The tremor is too weak, barely disrupting the battlefield.
  • 3-4: A moderate rupture, forcing the Augur to shift slightly.
  • 5-6: A violent shockwave that destabilizes the Augur’s entire stance, creating an ideal opening for Mordecai’s attack.
Avarice forced himself upright, his body still aching from the Augur’s deafening wail. His vision swam for a moment before sharpening, his breath misting as he pulled in the frigid air around him. He had spent so long frozen in time, in ice, in stillness. Now, he would use that stillness against the Augur.

The god was shifting, reeling from its injuries, but it was still too massive, too vast to take down with force alone. That meant they needed control—they needed to stop its movements, even if just for a moment.

Avarice’s fingers curled, frost blooming beneath his claws as ice crystallized along the ground. He focused, reaching outward—not to simply freeze the Augur itself, but to anchor it, to let the cold creep into the cracks of the battlefield, spreading beneath its weight, seeping into the spaces between stone and earth.

If he could get the ice to form fast enough, if he could lock its base in place, it would struggle to move—making Ashen’s tremor and Mordecai’s strike all the more devastating.

Step 1: Strength of the Ice​

  • Roll a d6
  • 1-2: The ice is too thin, barely affecting the Augur’s footing.
  • 3-4: A layer of frost forms, slowing the Augur’s movement but not stopping it entirely.
  • 5-6: The ice freezes deep into the earth, locking the Augur in place for a brief but critical moment.

Eoghan steadied his breath, the chaos of battle roaring around him, but his focus narrowed to a single point. His fingers tightened around the bowstring, the tension in the wood a familiar anchor against the overwhelming presence of the Augur. The battlefield had become something out of a nightmare, but he was not new to nightmares—he had lived through them before.

The Augur was wounded, its divine form wavering under the relentless assault, yet it was far from finished. Its arms—its anchors—were still the greatest threat. Three remained, and as long as they stood, so did it.

Eoghan did not fight like a warrior, like a soldier, like the others. He fought from a distance, unseen, striking with precision, with intent. He did not need brute force. He needed only one shot.

His golden eyes flicked to the writhing mass of the Augur’s limbs, searching, waiting. The moment it reared back, shifting its weight, readying to retaliate, he saw it—the opening. He exhaled slowly, lowering his stance.

His fingers released.

The arrow cut through the air in a swift, deadly arc, heading straight for the Augur’s fourth arm.

Step 1: Precision of the Shot​

Roll a d6
  • 1-2: The arrow veers off course, missing the target.
  • 3-4: The arrow hits, but glances off, dealing only minor damage.
  • 5-6: The arrow strikes deep, piercing through the Augur’s fourth arm with enough force to destabilize it.
Ephraim gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand. Her limbs ached, the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones, but she refused to fall. The battlefield swirled around her, chaos and destruction stretching in every direction. The Augur, wounded but unrelenting, loomed above, its divine presence pressing down like an unbearable weight. She had no illusions about what she was up against. This was a god, something beyond comprehension—beyond reason.

And yet, something in her stirred.

It wasn’t magic, wasn’t something she had ever reached for before. It was instinct, a shift within her that she couldn’t explain. A force she had never called upon but now threatened to rise all the same. Her breath hitched, her fingertips tingling as energy curled at the edges of her consciousness. Not hers. Not entirely.

It was as if something unseen was waiting.

Step 1: Unknown Power Awakens​

Roll a d4
  • 1: Nothing happens. Whatever flickered in her fades before she can grasp it.
  • 2: A strange warmth spreads through her, stabilizing her body, dulling pain, but nothing more.
  • 3: A pulse of energy—unfamiliar and raw—erupts from within, forming a protective force around her or an ally.
  • 4: A force beyond herself takes hold. Ephraim, unknowingly, taps into something greater. Her body acts as a conduit, if only for a moment, channeling an unknown power far beyond mortal comprehension.
 
The battlefield was chaos, a storm of divine wrath and mortal defiance. The Augur loomed overhead, three arms already severed, yet its presence remained overwhelming. It was a god, and gods did not fall easily.

Eoghan – Missed Opportunity​

Eoghan steadied his breath, fingers tightening around the bowstring as he loosed another arrow toward the Augur’s remaining limb. The shot was well-placed, aimed for the joint where divine essence still pulsed—but the movement of the battlefield worked against him. At the last second, the Augur shifted, recoiling from the pain of Mordecai’s attack, and the arrow struck just off-center. It embedded itself in the flesh but lacked the power to sever the limb completely. The Augur did not even flinch.

Ashen – Unstable Tremor​

Ashen slammed his hands against the ground, summoning the deep, seismic force that had always guided him. The earth responded, cracks splitting outward beneath the Augur’s feet as he forced the tremors forward. But something was wrong. The battlefield was already too fractured, too unstable, and the energy did not carry the way it should have. The tremor rippled weakly beneath the Augur but did not unbalance it—not yet. He grit his teeth, frustration burning through him. He needed more time.

Avarice – Ice Forms, but not Enough​

Avarice’s hands burned cold, ice forming in thick veins along his arms before surging outward. Frost bloomed across the battlefield, creeping toward the Augur’s feet, aiming to lock it in place. But the divine being was too massive, too vast. The ice cracked under its weight before it could fully take hold, doing little more than slowing its movement for a fleeting moment. Avarice let out a sharp exhale, his breath visible in the sudden chill. Not enough.

Ephraim – The Power Awakens​

And then—something changed.

Ephraim’s vision blurred. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear. From something else. Her breath caught, her body locking in place as warmth flooded her. It was not her magic. It was not her will.

It was something greater.

For a brief second, she felt it—an overwhelming, foreign presence threading through her veins, sinking into her bones. A hand unseen, a voice unheard, but real. It did not speak, yet it did not need to. Its presence alone was enough to command her.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her fur glowed. A faint, golden shimmer flickered across her arms, her chest, her fingertips. A feeling of protection, of purpose settled over her, as if something beyond this world was watching her now.
 
For a moment, outside the battlefield, beyond the clash of divine wrath and mortal defiance, there was only Wrath. Suspended in his void, his shadows stretching across the astral plane, he stood tethered to Mordecai, his jagged goat skull and spectral form threading through the battle, guiding, striking, existing as both presence and power. Yet something pulled him from the flow of the fight, a shift, a sensation he had not felt in a very, very long time.

He turned, his hollow gaze fixating on something unseen, something distant yet impossibly close. The void did not ripple, the shadows did not move, yet he felt it—the warmth, the light, an ancient familiarity threading through the darkness. His voice, usually a growl of fury, came quieter, rough but softer, a name spoken like an old memory being pulled from the depths.

“...Mercy?”

On the battlefield, Mordecai inhaled sharply as his attack struck true, sending a shudder through the Augur’s massive form. The god recoiled, its celestial body faltering for just a moment, but the battle was far from won. Around him, others struck, their attacks landing but not breaking through, their efforts slowed by exhaustion, misalignment, sheer scale. It was like fighting something made of the world itself—unyielding, relentless.

But there it was again. That warmth. That old, lingering familiarity, subtle yet unmistakable. It was a presence he could never quite place, yet one that had found him time and time again. It was still strange, still something he was reluctant to name, yet it called to him nonetheless.

His breath caught as he turned, eyes locking onto Ephraim.

Something was different.

The battlefield around them blurred at the edges, the roar of combat distant for just a second as he saw the golden shimmer threading through her skin, flickering like something not entirely of this world. Awe settled in his chest—not fear, not confusion, but something else entirely. He did not speak, not yet, but his gaze remained fixed on her, as if watching something impossible take shape before his eyes.
 
1738470828250.png
The void rippled, shifting in a way it hadn’t in ages. Wrath’s domain had always been an expanse of endless shadow, untouched by anything but the raw force of his own being. But now, something else bled into it. Light, soft but steady, wove through the darkness—not harsh, not searing like the Augur’s false divinity, but something older, something familiar.

And then she was there.

Mercy.

Her form shimmered like liquid gold, shifting between presence and imprisonment. Lines of radiant energy pulsed beneath her skin, swirling like celestial veins, but her glow was muted beneath an unseen weight. Suspended atop her head, a glasslike dome sat affixed to her crown, filled with water that churned in slow, deliberate motion —the Tear of the Goddess—remained affixed to her, a relic that had loosened its grip on Ephraim but had never let go of her. It did not spill, did not empty. It was a burden, a tether. Though her body dripped with luminous strands of liquid light, the water above her remained still, as if it alone held dominion over her.

She was not drowning—not in the way mortals did—but the weight of it was unmistakable. The pressure pressed down on her, seeped into her, dimming the full brilliance of what she once was. The swirling rings of light that surrounded her, remnants of divinity, pulsed weakly beneath the burden she bore.

Yet she did not struggle.

Her hands pressed against something unseen, fingers curling slightly—not in resistance, not in demand, but in quiet, steady pleading. Not to be saved, but to be reached.

To be seen.
 
Wrath watched her, his form shifting, restless in the presence of something so familiar yet so distant. The void rippled around them, uneasy, the endless dark no longer entirely his own. Mercy stood before him, golden and soft, but bound, her light dimmed beneath the weight of something that did not belong. She had always been the stillness to his storm, the whisper in the silence after his fury had passed. Yet, for so long, she had been absent, and in her absence, the void had felt emptier than he would ever admit.

"Mercy." The name left him low and rough, more breath than sound, as if speaking it aloud might make her disappear again. His third eye pulsed red, his breath steady but weighted. His form shifted, flickering between jagged and smooth, caught between instinct and memory. "My counter, my balance… but where were you?"

"You were gone." His voice darkened, sharp and bitter. "I have been alone."

The truth settled over him like a sickness, festering, coiling in his chest, and then it broke. Shadows lashed outward as his body twisted, his jagged skull shifting, his shape lowering, stretching, fur thickening into something more feral, something unbound. He moved like a beast that had been left to run wild, his form no longer entirely his own.

"You abandoned me!" He snarled, his voice layered with something deeper than fury. "Where were you? You have been gone!"

He lunged.

He stopped before her, breath heavy, form flickering in uncertainty. He loomed, his massive body casting her in shadow, his teeth bared as though he still meant to tear into her.

Slowly, his fury dulled, though it did not fade. It never truly did. His body shifted again, the edges of his form drawing inward, his limbs tensing before he lowered himself onto his forearms before her, head bowing slightly, the weight of his presence settling into something quieter.

"I have missed you." His voice was rough, frayed at the edges, but steady.

She reached for him, but the weight atop her head did not let her move freely. He watched the way it pressed her down, the way it dimmed her light. His gaze lifted to the glasslike dome, the burden that had latched onto her the way he had latched onto his own wrath. His lips curled, his claws flexing.

"I have missed you," he said again, this time with certainty. He rose, the tension in his body shifting, eyes locked onto the thing that had dared to claim her.

And then he struck, his claws tearing into the dome, breaking what was never meant to hold her.
 
The void trembled as the artifact shattered, and for the first time in an age, Mercy was free. The weight that had drowned her in silence, that had severed her connection to the world, to Ephraim, to everything—was gone. Water spilled from the broken device in slow, shimmering waves, cascading through the empty space like remnants of a long-forgotten dream.

She inhaled, or at least, she thought she did. Could she even breathe here? The thought didn’t matter. The sensation did. She felt light, unburdened, no longer trapped beneath the crushing stillness of that cursed relic.

And then Wrath spoke.

"I have missed you."

The words landed like a blow, striking something deep within her that she had long since buried. His presence loomed before her, shifting between sharp edges and steady form, flickering with the weight of his nature. He had freed her. He had called her name. He had reached for her as if she had never left.

Mercy’s golden light dimmed.

She looked at him, truly looked at him, and the quiet, steady grief she had held for so long finally surfaced.

"You missed me?" The words were soft, but they carried an unmistakable edge. She let them linger, searching his expression for something—anything. "Wrath… you let me leave."

Her voice did not rise. It did not break. It simply was.

"You had her."

The name was unspoken, but it filled the space between them nonetheless. Nyx. The vessel who had carried his power, the warrior who had burned alongside him, who had fought with him, for him. The one who had—at least in Mercy’s eyes—become his balance when Mercy was no longer there.

"Do you think I vanished without reason. You did not need me. Not anymore."

Her fingers curled slightly, as if testing their own freedom, as if unsure whether to reach for him or pull away. "I watched you, Wrath. I saw what you became with her. I saw how easily you let her take my place. And so, I left."

Her light flickered again, uncertain, but she did not step back. She only watched, waiting, as if daring him to deny it.
 
Wrath stared at her, his form flickering, edges jagged with something unsettled. He had expected warmth, relief, maybe even quiet understanding. But her words struck like a blade, not sharp with anger, but with something far worse—disappointment. He recoiled slightly, his massive form shifting as though the void itself had buckled beneath her quiet accusation.

"Hey, hey!" He shot up, his voice rough, defensive. "I connected with my vessel! And—" He stopped, looking at her, truly seeing her. The tension in his limbs, the instinct to snap back, to challenge, wavered.

His jaw tightened, his third eye pulsing with an uneven glow. "Mercy, the world is at stake right now. My vessel is hanging in there, fighting, bleeding, trying to protect your vessel from dying this whole time. Can I have a break?" His voice still carried its usual weight, but the bite had softened, laced with something caught between exhaustion and exasperation.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. "I have missed you, but if this is how we’re doing this, maybe we save the guilt trip until after we stop a god from wiping them off the map?" His tone shifted, lighter but edged with something unspoken. He wouldn’t deny her words, not completely. But he wasn’t about to carry that weight alone.
 
"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Mercy’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the void with the precision of a blade honed over centuries. Not loud, not cruel—just steady, measured, full of something Wrath wasn’t used to hearing from her.

She took a slow step forward, her golden light flickering, no longer dulled by the artifact but still softer than it should have been. Her eyes—deep pools of celestial radiance—remained locked onto him, unwavering. "You always want to push it aside. The weight of things. The things you don't want to feel." Her fingers twitched slightly, as if testing their freedom, testing whether they even wanted to reach for him. "I know there is war, I know the battle is not won. But you are the one who said you missed me. And I am telling you why I left."
She finally looked past him, toward the shifting shadows of his domain, toward the edges where the battlefield still raged. "You are right about one thing—this is not the time. But when this is over, you will answer me."

Her golden gaze flicked back to him, unreadable, full of something too deep to name. "Because I have missed you too."
The battlefield, already a maelstrom of chaos, twisted into something even more frenzied as the skies darkened with unnatural movement. At first, it was a subtle shift—shadows darting across the broken ground, swift and erratic, the wind carrying an eerie, high-pitched clicking that wasn’t quite birdsong. Then, all at once, they descended.

Gloomreavers.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of them, their scaled wings glinting in the fractured light as they poured down from the storm-choked sky. Their beaked heads snapped toward the surging energy sources below, their glowing yellow eyes locking onto the densest pools of magic—the Augur, Wrath’s presence within Mordecai, and the countless kin fighting with desperation-fueled power.

They dove with ruthless precision, moving in coordinated waves, striking at anything and everything that pulsed with arcane energy. Some latched onto the Augur itself, their talons sinking into divine flesh, their bodies shimmering as they drank deep of the god’s presence. Others swarmed the kin below, tearing into mages, warriors, and even the wounded who still carried remnants of power.

Screams of pain and frustration echoed across the battlefield as the creatures siphoned raw magic, draining spells mid-cast, disrupting enchanted weapons, feeding on the very essence that fueled this war.

The Augur flinched, its mask tilting toward the swarm as the first wave of Gloomreavers latched onto its golden form. For the first time since it had revealed its true self, it hesitated—not in fear, but in annoyance. These creatures were pests, leeching from it like parasites. A sudden pulse of divine energy erupted from its body, sending some of the bats shrieking into the air, but more took their place, relentless.

For the first time, the battlefield saw the Augur truly occupied. The divine entity’s towering form wavered as it lashed out at the swarming Gloomreavers, its golden light surging in pulses that sent some scattering, only for more to take their place. Its movements became erratic, its focus split as its remaining limbs swiped and tore through the air, desperately trying to rid itself of the parasitic creatures feeding from its vast well of power. Yet even as the Augur reeled, the warriors on the ground were not spared—every surge of magic, every weapon infused with arcane energy, drew the Gloomreavers in kind. Mages found their spells failing mid-cast, their strength siphoned before they could release their attacks. Enchanted blades dulled, their once-glowing edges flickering weakly as the creatures feasted. Chaos reigned as both god and mortal alike were forced to fend off the relentless swarm, the battle now tilting into something even more unpredictable.

Ephraim barely had time to process the weight surging through her. Mercy’s presence had always been there—a quiet whisper in the back of her mind, a warmth just beyond reach—but now, it wasn’t just a presence. It was overwhelming. It flooded through her veins, wrapped around her bones, filling every inch of her being until she felt as if she might break apart from the sheer force of it.

And then she saw them.

The Gloomreavers.

They descended in waves, feeding off the battlefield’s chaos, their greedy beaks siphoning the very essence of magic from the living and divine alike. They didn’t just drink power, they disrupted it, forcing the Augur into a frenzied defense, forcing warriors into desperation. Ephraim could feel it—how unstable everything was, how thin the line between magic and ruin had become.

And in that moment, she made a choice.

She turned toward Mordecai, her breath quick and unsteady. Without thinking, without hesitation, she clutched onto him—not for comfort, not for protection, but for something deeper, something instinctual. Light and shadow radiated between them in an instant, Mercy and Wrath colliding in a way they hadn’t for centuries. A golden glow seeped from her fingertips where they touched him, threads of luminescence weaving into his darkness. Shadows curled in response, thick and protective, not in defiance but in harmony.

The energy surged.

Ephraim barely had time to gasp before her form flickered, her body folding in on itself, bending, reshaping. Light twisted around her limbs, shadow streaking through the radiance as her very essence compressed, condensed, reformed into something solid, something tangible.

And then, she was gone.

Where she had stood, only a weapon remained—a golden scythe, its surface etched with intricate, swirling light, dark streaks rippling through its form like cracks of shadow bleeding into brilliance. It hit the ground with a ringing clang, humming with raw energy, its presence unmistakably alive.

[ITEM OBTAINED]
Righteous Judgement (Scythe Form)

A weapon forged in the fusion of Mercy and Wrath—one of two possible forms, dictated by the counterpart who initiates the transformation. This divine scythe pulses with raw magical potency, capable of severing with unmatched precision. When thrown, it will always return to the hand of its rightful wielder, ensuring that judgement is never left unfinished. If the wielder dies, the scythe and contributing forms will dissipate; otherwise, the wielder can deconstruct it back into its counterparts at any time.
1738473209845.png
 
Mordecai looked down at the golden scythe, feeling the energy radiating from it. Ephraim wasn’t gone. He knelt, fingers wrapping around the weapon’s hilt, his gaze tracing the intricate details etched into its surface. Despite the chaos raging around him, the connection was undeniable. If anything, they were closer than ever. He could feel it in his hands, in the pulse of the scythe itself.

"I always had faith in you," he murmured, speaking to the weapon as if speaking directly to Ephraim.

He took a deep, steady breath, his eyes locking onto the Augur ahead, its form momentarily distracted by the Gloomreavers swarming the battlefield. The tension in his chest coiled tighter, Wrath’s energy surging beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed. He could feel it now—the power flowing through him, through the scythe, through everything they had become.

He didn’t speak further, didn’t waste time on words. His grip tightened, muscles tensing as he bolted forward, weaving through the chaos of the battlefield, slipping between the Gloomreavers as they tore through the field. As soon as he reached the right distance, he swung the scythe back and threw.

The weapon cut through the air like a golden arc of judgment, spinning toward the Augur’s remaining arms. He didn’t hesitate. He put his faith in Ephraim, in Wrath, in Mercy, in the weapon now bound to them all.
 
The Augur’s mask twisted toward the incoming weapon, its faceless visage unreadable, but its intent was clear. Both remaining arms shot forward, clawed hands reaching, desperate to halt the inevitable. Divine energy surged through its form, a last attempt to assert control, to grasp onto its own existence.

The scythe met its touch.

The moment its gilded edge made contact, the Augur’s hands began to wither. Not torn, not severed—simply erased. The judgment infused within the weapon burned through divine essence itself, unraveling the Augur’s arms as if they had never been. The golden glow of its body flickered violently, its form spasming, its very presence faltering.

Then, it screamed.

A sound that did not belong in this world. A sound that tore through the battlefield like the wail of something ancient and dying, something unraveling from reality itself. Its mask twisted, cracking down the center as the void between its form pulsed erratically, flickering between states of being.

The Gloomreavers, sensing weakness, surged. A dark wave of wings and gnashing beaks descended upon the failing god, tearing at its mask, its form, its presence. They pecked and latched onto it like carrion drawn to something long overdue for death, siphoning divine magic in wild, erratic bursts.

Its one remaining limb, writhing from its back, flailed uncontrollably, twisting and jerking as if searching for something, anything, to hold onto. But there was nothing. It was losing. It was being undone.
Avarice sprinted through the battlefield, weaving between fallen bodies and the erratic movements of both ally and foe. His breath was heavy, his limbs still aching from the Augur’s earlier assault, but he pushed forward, eyes locked onto Mordecai. He had felt it—the shift, the unraveling of something once untouchable.

As he closed the distance, he barely had time to process the sight before him. The Augur—this towering, untouchable entity of divine power—was flailing, its last remaining arm writhing like a wounded beast. The Gloomreavers swarmed it relentlessly, their beaks tearing into the flickering remnants of its golden form, siphoning away what little strength it had left. But the real damage had come from the scythe.

Avarice could feel the weight of it in the air—magic unlike anything he had ever known, something woven from Wrath and Mercy both, something that shouldn’t exist but now did.

He skidded to a stop next to Mordecai, eyes wide as he analyzed the battlefield. “This is it,” he said, exhaling sharply. “It’s unraveling. You got both of its arms, Mordecai—whatever was holding it together, it’s losing grip on it.” He glanced at the Augur, the mask twisting, cracking under its own instability. “It’s burning through its power just trying to hold itself together. The Gloomreavers aren’t helping, either. They’re draining it. It can’t sustain this form much longer."
Ashen’s world was stone, dust, and the muffled chaos of a battlefield he could no longer see. The weight of shattered debris pressed against his shoulders, his breath ragged as he shoved against the wreckage that had become his shelter. His body ached from the impact, from the constant strain of battle, but none of it compared to the fury boiling in his chest.

He was supposed to lead them. He was supposed to break this thing apart, to carve his vengeance into the battlefield with the strength of his warriors. Yet, all around him, he could hear them—his Dinosaurkin, the last remnants of his forces, being torn apart. Their roars of defiance, their dying screams, the wet sound of talons sinking into flesh as the Gloomreavers descended like a living storm, feeding, draining, finishing what the Augur had started.

His hands clenched into fists, claws digging into the dirt beneath him. His breath came sharp through his teeth, nostrils flaring as the scent of death and dust filled his lungs. He had never felt so caged. So useless.

Beside him, Eoghan stirred, shifting a slab of broken stone off his legs with a grunt. The archer coughed against the dust cloud that rose around them, his breath coming out sharp and uneven. He was watching Ashen from the corner of his eye, his face unreadable, but Ashen could feel it—the silent question.

What now?

Ashen let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back against the stone trapping them in. He could feel the battlefield moving without him, his warriors dying without him. He had fought for so long, clawed his way to the top of the Sunship’s forces, made his name known. And for what? To sit here, buried under rubble, while his enemies reshaped the world without him?

A deep, guttural growl built in his throat, his tail slamming against the debris in frustration. "This isn’t how I go out," he snarled, voice low, venomous. His fingers flexed against the ground, and for the first time since the battle began, he stopped fighting the weight above him and started feeling the earth below.

The tremors whispered to him, faint but familiar. The battlefield still lived, still shifted. He might have lost his warriors, but he hadn’t lost everything.

Eoghan adjusted his bow, shaking off the last of the rubble as he met Ashen’s gaze. "You have a plan," he said, not as a question, but a statement.
Ashen ground his teeth, his breath ragged as he forced himself up from the rubble. His body ached, his head throbbed, and the scent of blood—his warriors’ blood—hung thick in the air. He could still hear their cries, still feel the weight of their lives slipping through his grasp.

His fingers curled into the fractured ground, claws digging into the stone. He wanted to lash out. At Mordecai. At the Augur. At everything. But rage without direction was useless. He had seen that firsthand.

His breath steadied. His eyes burned as they tracked across the battlefield, landing on Mordecai—the one still standing, still winning, still fighting with that goddamned scythe like the war had always been his to claim. And yet, beyond him, the Augur loomed, barely holding itself together, swarming with Gloomreavers. It still had power. It still stood.

No. Not for long.

Ashen planted both palms against the earth, closing his eyes, shutting out the carnage around him. He inhaled deep, reaching out, feeling the tremors beneath the battlefield. The fractured land told him everything—the weight of the Augur pressing down, the shifting of its last remaining limb, the places where the stone was weakest. He didn’t need to destroy it. He just needed to hold it.

The ground quaked violently. Then, in a single, decisive motion, the battlefield itself rose.

Jagged walls of stone erupted around the Augur, thick slabs of rock twisting upward like the ribs of some great beast locking into place. The earth groaned under the strain as the structure sealed tight, trapping the god within a colossal enclosure. The Gloomreavers screeched, some darting out just in time, others crushed beneath the shifting walls.

Ashen staggered slightly but forced himself upright, sweat rolling down his brow. His hands remained stretched outward, keeping the hold, locking the Augur in. He had it now. It would not move.

His gaze snapped across the battlefield—straight to Mordecai.

His voice carried through the chaos, rough but commanding.

"Do it."
The scythe returns to Mordecai. :3
 
Reader mode
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 3 (members: 0, guests: 3)

Similar threads

Wonderkind
Fantasy Blood ties (Closed)
Replies
8
Views
94
Wonderkind
Wonderkind
Shoya
Fandom Persona: PR (closed)
Replies
0
Views
48
Shoya
Shoya
EclecticSpica
Realistic or Modern Thank you places! (a 1x1 rp)
Replies
14
Views
133
EclecticSpica
EclecticSpica
EclecticSpica
Fandom Surviving With You. (A Fourth Wing 1x1 rp)
Replies
8
Views
82
EclecticSpica
EclecticSpica
Koraki
Fantasy Aspenridge (1x1 w/ _anubis_)
Replies
0
Views
22
Koraki
Koraki
Back
Top