Fantasy Guild of Heroes: Chronicles of Gael (Sub-Story Thread)

[Birdsie]

Here, you can post and add any self-contained stories of your characters. Things like backstory, or the lives of people that your characters have affected. Anything outside the main plot should go here, along with any short or unfitting stories you don't want to include due to lack of relevancy.

 

[Birdsie]

When Evil Ruled

Chapter 1: The Faithful

Spoiler

"We are here tonight on the Eve of the Oath to renew our pledge of service... and to admit one more righteous soul into our order!..."

The paladins, gathered in a circle, drew their swords and placed them in the ground, crossguards up. Their intricate armor was white on the outside, with gold emblems and countless adornments. "Initiate, step forward!..."

One, his sword still in its sheath walked and stopped in the center of the circle. A beacon of light fell on him, emanated by the early afternoon sun through a hole in the ceiling of the temple. He was then asked by the head of the circle,

"Do you swear by Almighty Ilmater to dedicate your life to the purity of service?"

"Yes."

"To forsake all worldly pleasures?"

"Yes."

"To defend the weak and show mercy to the wicked?"

"... Yes."

"And above all things - to remain the one beacon of hope, when all other lights have gone out? To never give into despair?"

"The dark will never triumph, as long as the light inside me prevails."

"... Raise your sword to receive the blessing!"

The initiate drew his sword - 'shwing' - he brought it up to his face as if inspecting the blade, and the reflection of his face in it. He had a fair skin tone and blue eyes, with dark, brown hair. Although far from handsome, he was on the eminent side of the spectrum with a strong jawline.

He raised his sword, stretching his hand up as far as he could. In moments, it began to glow with a faint, golden light, from tip to grip. Faint gold particles dripped from it, moving with the wind to one side. He then slowly moved it down and sheathed it. The new paladin turned to his seniors. "The light was born. And with it, I will guard the weak. For the Most High!"

"For the Most High!" all paladins answered in chorus, and with that, the ceremony concluded.

*​

The paladin walked forward through the hallway with the intent of reaching the armory, to don off the armor he wore for the ceremony. After that, he intended to go back to his chamber and rest for tonight. His duty would begin tomorrow.

"How did it go?" a voice asked him, derailing his thoughts. The paladin turned and saw his good friend, the prince. Being friends with the son of the king had many perks, one of them was a degree of influence most could dream of.

"It went well," he answered with pride, yet his face was indifferent. "I was accepted into the Order of Ilmater."

The prince stood there. The two were outwardly similar in appearance - both shared blue eyes and dark hair, although the prince's was black instead of brown - but what truly set them apart was that the prince could, unlike his friend, be called handsome, or even charming. He had a slender body, attractive, outright angelic facial features, and long, straight hair that reached to a little below his shoulders.

"You gotta teach me some fighting techniques one day, Verraketh."

"I will make sure to add that to the list of things to do, Your Grace." Verraketh turned away, preparing to walk away, but this gesture threw off the prince.

"Is something wrong?"

"No..." Verraketh responded hastily, too quickly to make it seem honest. "No, no... it's just... now, a life of duty is in front of me. It makes me nervous. I was accepted - the light appeared. I'm ready for the commitment, and yet..."

The prince stood there, speechless. He did not interrupt. "And yet, I feel like... there's something missing. I joined the Order of Ilmater - I dreamt of joining it, all my life."

"Yeah," his friend affirmed and nodded. "When we were kids, you couldn't stop talking about it. So, what's wrong?"

"I think... " He paused, as his heart sunk. He decided to explain it another way. "My dad told me stories of mighty paladins slaying evil dragons, and fiends, and... now, I discover my duty is to be a protector, rather than a... this will sound wrong, but... a protector, rather than an attacker."

The prince frowned heavily and approached Verraketh, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. "That's just not how you pictured heroism, huh? You'd rather slay monsters than protect people from them?" Although Verraketh's dissonant eyes were looking forward, the prince stared into them, hoping to find contact.

Verraketh nodded, wordlessly.

"Hey, if you want... you could ask to become my bodyguard. Then I'd go on tours in dangerous places and you'd have to protect me from monsters," he offered, with a sharp, uneven smile. He had spry eyes, those of a planner or thinker - another thing that set them apart.

Verraketh almost smiled back, but then a bitter frown replaced it. He shook his head decisively. "No. That probably wouldn't work. Besides, I already made my oath."

"And you'd keep it!" he clarified with a grin, stepping in front of Verraketh. "You'd protect me from the beasts and monsters. To do that, you'd have to kill them, because you know I'm not just gonna run away! I get to do my business, you get to do what you want, I get to see exotic places all across Gael, and you get to keep your oath! Everyone is happy! And in more ways than one!"

"You'd go on tours for me? Your Grace, that's..."

"Too generous?" he asked, huffing with pride, as he lowered his brows and looked at his fingertips smugly. His eyes rose to meet Verraketh's. "I know. One day, they'll call me Turenval the Generous!"

"Where did you pull that moniker from?" Verraketh asked, confused. "Literally no one ever is going to call you Turenval. It's a really dumb nickname. Who gave it to you?"

The prince frowned heavily, displeased by this. "It's better than Adrucil."

"I wholeheartedly disagree. What does it even mean?"

"Something-something, powerful, I think," Adrucil replied, rolling his eyes. He sighed. "Look, I'm not fluent in Elvish! My master gave it to me."

"Is he an elf?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p.' "Hey, wanna go dine at Sinclair's restaurant, later? Show off my wealth and be spoiled rich kids, one last time?"

"It's tempting," Verraketh acknowledged. "But I have to refuse. I'm going to sleep."

"Aahh!" Adrucil nodded proudly, as he pointed a finger at Verraketh. "That was a test! Good job! I guess if I'm Turenval the Generous, that makes you Verraketh the Faithful."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Adrucil whistled as he turned on his heel and waved to the paladin. "See you later, goodie-kid."

Verraketh stood there, watching as his friend walked away. He stood, emptily watching the space in front of him. How unfortunate. "How unfortunate that I cheated," Verraketh whispered, raising his palm as it emanated a blue, gaseous mana.

Ilmatar knew that Verraketh's resolve to protect was false. Only through the secret practice of silent metamagic had Verraketh managed to fake the holy light before the other paladins and be accepted into the order. He was far from a paladin, but people would call him a hero as he slew mighty beasts, just how he wanted. And that's all that mattered.

Chapter 2: Apocryphal Elixir

Spoiler

Verraketh noticed some very obvious changes going on with Adrucil over the last few months. The prince's skin got paler, his hair whitened at the edges, and his eyes turned from blue to a dark, almost black brown shade.

When asked about this, the prince deflected the question, until Verraketh finally got an answer a week ago - it was a part of his training. Imbibing mutagens to enhance his abilities, but they had some side-effects on his appearance. It was worth the price, apparently, as Adrucil's meridians nearly doubled over the last year, going from thirty-six to seventy-one. This was a perplexing amount of magical energy for a human body to have, almost rivaling that of the greatest sorcerers.

The two traveled along the borders of the Desolation on their steeds: a white mare for Verraketh and a black steed for Adrucil. They were looking for a special flower requested by Adrucil's master, and Adrucil took Verraketh with him as it was guarded by a blue dragon.

Native to the desert, blue dragons were lawful evil, territorial creatures. They only knew about its approximate location from the legends of the local kobold tribes about it being a demigod, at which Adrucil scoffed, saying the dragon was a mortal like anyone else in the Material Plane.

Then, they reached the oasis and Adrucil began to inspect the plants, one after another. As Adrucil looked around for the herb, there was silence. Uncomfortable silence. Trying to break it, Verraketh asked, "So, what's the herb? What's so important about it, that a dragon would guard it as part of its treasures?"

"It's an exceptional poison," he explained curtly. "But it has incredible spiritual properties when imbibed in a correctly prepared tea. My master wishes to try it out as an ingredient for his Elixir of Transformation, though the name confuses me."

"Why?"

"It neither transforms nor is it an elixir. Weird, right?" He stopped to look Verraketh in the eyes. Then he continued, "It may have some cultural appropriation, but if we're strictly technical, it's more like a Potion of Spiritual Self-Control."

"Ah," Verraketh uttered. He sounded confused, but deep down he knew the meaning behind Adrucil's words.

"Actually, I looked through the recipe's sources and found a section written down about two centuries ago by a wizard-cleric from the far east, who mentioned the herb has the ability to grant eternal life and was used to do so in his culture, but that's just absurd. It's poison. Spiritually deep poison, but poison nonetheless. If my master wants to die from it, so be it. I'll find another."

Verraketh nodded soundly. "Wise choice, Your Grace."

As they talked, the sound of shuffling sand behind them went unnoticed. Only when the horses began to neigh in panic and try to run away (although them being tied to the trees made that impossible,) did Verraketh turn around to find a rather menacing beast staring at them.

Thrice the size of a horse, with a tail just as long as its body, the dragon had bony scales covering its body, their colors ranging from iridescent azure to deep indigo depending on the part of the body. Its heavy hide resonated and hummed with stored-up, static electricity. Speaking of which, the dragon hung its head back as sparks loaded into its mouth.

Verraketh drew his sword and hesitated to run. Ten meters to cross; not enough time. He leaped to the side, falling on his stomach, just in time to dodge a lightning bolt from the beast's mouth. Adrucil instead cast a shield on himself and smiled at Verraketh, who stood up.

Verraketh ran forward, to the beast, then dodged a mighty swipe of its front claws, to drive his sword below its shoulder. It roared, then knocked him away with its tail, turning. Verraketh was sent flying fifteen meters away but managed to just barely land on his feet. He reached out with his hand and the sword returned to his hand at immediate speed.

The dragon spoke in draconic, its voice deep, gurgling, and menacing, but neither of them understood it. The dragon charged forward, trying to bite at Verraketh, but the paladin replied with his sword, which met the dragon's eye and removed it painfully. Once again, the dragon roared and hung its head back, lifting Verraketh with it. It loaded sparks into its mouth, so Verraketh released his grip on the sword and caught onto its neck instead, then climbed on its back, the sword still stuck in hits head. It trashed around wildly.

Verraketh bashed it over the head using both his fists as a natural hammer. He did it. Then again, and again. Thrice. Four times. Five times. Finally, exhausted and stunned, the beast released its lightning toward the sky. With that, Verraketh deemed it safe. He jumped up, high into the air, and as he started falling back, he caught to his sword and used the force of his fall to drag the dragon's head down with him to the ground.

He stomped his foot on it and saw its other, functional eye begging for mercy. But instead, he stabbed his sword into it, then again and again, until it released a last, pained moan and died.

Adrucil simply watched, overjoyed, as his companion took down an adult dragon.

What an excellent servant.

Chapter 3: Adrucil No More

Spoiler

Since the first day that he could understand the world around him, he craved power. The act of obtaining it could be bitter-tasting, hand-dirtying work, but it paid off with a sweet reward. Power. That was his quest.

Once the settlers began building Bowerstone, the chief became king. And his son became a prince. Being the prince of Albion was unquestionably tiring, but rewarding. His father and him would always appear during public events, and the two shared their love of riding unusual steeds -- not the imported kind -- the strange kind, from pegasi to hippogriffs. He also had friends, such as a local elder's son, not part of the settlers, but one that became part of their society due to his family's connections and roots with the land, possibly originating from the Great Forest.

But his friends and hobbies took second place to his true interest, his only real quest: Power. He never made any mistakes and never looked back. Always, at every hour of the day, his mind was like a steel trap that caught opportunities and chewed on them until every last bit of power, temporal or permanent, was devoured by him.

His longing for control came from his mother. A forest witch, died at birth, but he knew she was kind. He knew she didn't deserve to die, so he blamed himself. He was a conduit for which a person lost her life, so naturally, he had to make the most of his own. That gave beginning to his twisted morality.

And once he found her books, he gave up influence in favor of arcane might. Why bother seducing the lord's daughter, when an incantation and a wave of the hand can do it for you? Why bother carrying around tiresome bodyguards when a bolt of lightning can sway any assailant to leave you alone? Why bother with any of it, when the solution to any and all problems was within your soul all along?

That's what he thought, so he sought a master from among the Great Seven. The Great Seven Archmages of Gael. And he found one, as soon when he was thirteen. And to convince the master that he was a worthy student, he promised that the crown of Albion would ensure that all of its citizens bent before the mighty wizard on one knee.

"Dolurrh," the thing said. "My name. Make no mistake: there is nothing about you that I do not despise. But our interests are aligned..."

A moment of silence.

"You have said what you can give -- and I accept," it disclosed. "But what do I give in exchange to make it worth your time?"

"Power, I want power. All power that ever was," he answered with closed eyes, then opened them and stared at the lich, not blinking or furrowing an eyebrow; and on his mouth painted was a proud smirk. "No -- I want more than that. I want to become a God. To assail other deities and take their place for myself. To have the entire world as a little girl has a doll house."

"Then a new name is in order. Adrucil is no longer," it ordered, rather than informed, then leaned closer and thought. After a beat of staring blankly, it turned away to contemplate more deeply without the distraction of a mortal's facial expressions. "Hmm... Tura-en' val, meaning: he who has all power," it tested. Adrucil's head inched up ever-so-slightly.

"Turenval... yes... yes... I like the sound of that. Turenval suits you." It turned again, to face its new apprentice, and even in all the hundreds of years it had lived. Of all the horrors it had seen, this one belonged to the very top, mostly because it did not anticipate such a strong reaction.

Its apprentice, Turenval, was smiling. But not just that. It was a wicked, gleeful grin, revealing the canines and all other teeth. It was both drunk with power and thirsting for more of it as if its voracity could never be fed. Too symmetrical and eyes still too wide, spread across his face. So close to being human, yet still off. Wrongness cultivated into horror.

For one time in its unlife, the lich was terrified. Not because of the person that stood in front of it -- no. Adrucil was weak. It was afraid of the person that would one day stand in front of it. For Turenval would be strong -- the strongest. For Turenval would have all power as he desired. For one time in its unlife, the lich's stomach turned with trepidation.

And so he began formal work in the Magic Schools under the instruction of the vilest lich.

Dolurrh was eccentric and rarely kind. Sometimes it lost control of its temper, every word seething with hate, a monstrosity caged, boiling with intellect and furious contempt. But for all its hatred, it never raised a hand or spell against him in serious violence.

No, its torments were more subtle. The day after their introduction, Dolurrh barged into Turenval's room at the crack of dawn, tapped the wall to display brightly unfurling sigils, and with piercing stridency began to lecture: "The Schools. Eight of them, according to mainstream paradigm. The spells, which persist irregardless of paradigm. The ten common ranks of spellcraft. You lack the talent to pursue the higher in a meaningful period of time. Our focus therefore shall be on the former. Cantrips and first-shelf spells."

"Wha...?" Much as he had endured his father’s pestering, Turenval had grown used to the coddling of servants, tutors included. At least his butler had the decency to act at a proper wakening hour, like noon...

"Time!" The lich hissed, whirling on him. "The wick burns, it is always burning. Diligence now or servitude eternal, your decision. The so-called Deities are not kind to their pets, you know this but do not understand; you will."

It lifted him out of bed by his throat, skeletal fingers like iron bars. He clutched vainly at the cold bones, legs kicking futilely in the air. "You think a year is a notable span? To your child mind it may feel like forever, but to them it is an eyeblink! Theirs is not patience but rather perspective, do you see? Our long view is their moment’s hesitation."

The lich rotated, dropped him upon the cold stone floor. "Spoiled. Comfort softens your mind, and theirs. Grasping without the fortitude to grasp. Do you see? Swaddled by power you did not earn, your safety an illusion - stripped away with a moment's violence. Do you see?"

Keep moving. Don’t panic. Advance interests.

“And years for us is a moment to them," Nameless said, rubbing his throat. "We strip them of the illusion, provoke a 'moment’s’ hesitation, and strike. That’s how you think we can beat the Divinities."

Dolurrh turned its head unnaturally, spine clicking like a mechanical rotor. It favored him with its skull’s perpetual grin.

"Long-winded,” it finally said, “But not hopeless after all. Good. Good! Your current cantrips, I presume, are Prestidigitation and Thaumaturgy. By now perhaps you have discovered the tripartite nature of their power. Brush your teeth, your brain needs food to live."

Disoriented by the constant non-sequiturs, he stumbled into the bathroom. The lich followed shortly after, speaking still. "Cantrips. Hardly a spell at all. Easily outlined - a word, a gesture, maybe less - and easily rebuffed. Swift and weak, but universal. Necessary to improvise, but rely on them and die."

Turenval dipped his toothbrush in the cup, then began scrubbing.

"Abjurations. So-called because they are our most efficient compression of a protection under the manifesting conditions of exposure or danger. Far from ideal - slow - but, if you have foresight, then preparation can trump formidable odds. To challenge a Magus of the Abjuration School with advance warning: folly. But do not layer too heavily lest you exhaust yourself. Vigor of the flesh is not depth of the spirit. Even a lich tires from the exertions of spellcasting."

"Conjurations. The pinnacle of cost-efficient creation, the blade by which we cleave our purpose into the bones of the real. Impermanent; short-lived imitations of real matter. But power, power in return to alter the world for as long as your conjuration persists. Power enough to dominate an uncaring world... or defy a hostile one."

Turenval took the brush out of his mouth and spat down into the sink. "I thought conjuration summons matter?"

"Wrong," the lich grated. "Summoning summons. Creation creates. Conjuration is between them. Summoning summons what exists; a devil, one from the Nine Hells, but he exists. Creation creates something to exist permanently; a stone, it would not require mana to exist, just like one that lays on the ground. Conjuration creates something fake from magical energy; a sword, but it requires fuel to exist. And that fuel is..." It trailed off, expecting him to finish.

"Magical energy." He nodded along.

The lich continued, "You spend less on conjuration if the matter is only required for a brief period. When asking for permanency, it is better to create from the start."

"Like this?" Turenval reached his hand forward, palm facing upward. A pillar of blue energy fired from it and coalesced into a solid shape in seconds, becoming a plain if seemingly functional shortsword. It hovered in place.

It glanced at him, head cocked. "Ah. A prodigious power of improvisation. Where our society took centuries to pull one information from the firmament, alone you stumbled upon the proper logic in moments and executed the algorithm perfectly and without fail through imagination alone. Decades to research a single school, you can intuit them in months. In fact, your disguise spell active right now--"

It peered intensively, and for a moment the blue light flared brilliant, bright enough to dazzle, to bleach wood and wash out the stone - Turenval recoiled.

“One hundred and forty-two components, to replace true spiritual data; accuracy, detail, responsiveness enough to fool a sorcerer's senses below the sixth stage of divination. The spellcraft is unnaturally clean; can't be optimized, I imagine you wish for an effect and the intuition simply... arises." Dolurrh scoffed. "Self-assembling. The principles are so congruent with your essence that you cannot help but understand. I suppose that is a marvel."

"Go," it said, turning its back. "Eat. Play with your friends. Your unnatural giftedness repels me; I am distraught."

Weakness. Strike now or never earn its respect.

The boy forced himself to smirk, "And here I thought your hatred was strength everlasting, hate to open the way, hate enough to cast the gods down from heaven! But I understand. You were discouraged. The irony, it's just too painful! Your hate is not enough to withstand it; you lose, they win."

"Gall, ha!" The lich barked. “Good, when you are defeated they will be much crueler to you. Strong motivation. But though you are correct, it avails you not. I cannot give in now. I am a four-hundred-year-old archmage, and you are a child. It would simply be too embarrassing. Now go play."

The lich began to cast a spell. Prudently, Turenval ran.

Chapter 4: Carrots & Sticks

Spoiler

Every member of the Death Knights was a volatile bomb waiting to blow up in one way or another. Only through meticulous manipulation could one delay the detonation indefinitely.

Verraketh wanted strong enemies to fight, preferably legendary beasts, but any archmage or demigod would do. He relished defeating them, showing his superiority like a peacock displays its feathers. If his enemy was sapient, he would often monologue for a minute or two before killing them, about why he was better, and about how they were inferior in every way. Strong opponents had to be supplied to him to keep him in check.

Jaeyna was difficult to decipher due to her unreadable exterior. But underneath, she was desperate for approval and praise like a schoolgirl wanting to be congratulated for good grades. To show this off, she did everything she could to be the best. A compliment for good work was sufficient for a week, while a chance to prove herself could last for months.

Martin never communicated; even though he could, he didn't need to. He was the easiest to read. Once, he was an Eladrin, a fairy-descended elf. For reasons related to his past, no one used his real name and it was replaced with the moniker everyone knew. But he had his mission. To kill, to destroy, to annihilate. Martin didn't care for statistics or consequences; only the here and now. He wanted to slaughter as many people as he could get his hands on. Throwing him at an army every now and then with the promise of more kept him in line.

Yrdraxxas was disinterested in worldly affairs. Once, he was the child of a black and blue dragon. Now, a dracolich of considerable power and position. As long as you didn't bother him every single day and he remained powerful, he would remain loyal.

Korluxa was a tricky one. She wanted people to be afraid of her, kept at bay. To a degree, she resonated with the creed of mortals being lesser beings, but only because she shunned people in general. Being mocked or casually told off would set her to explode while being at least sincerely respected by her colleagues was enough to keep her from blowing. Being afraid by everyone lesser wasn't a problem since that came free with being a death knight.

Akbal was a creature of spite and hate. Few things bothered him as much as seeing someone try to help others and succeed. To control him, one had to subtly remind him of who he once was. A mention of his former name was like a slap in the face; violent but effective if used sparingly.

Abominigar was more of an animal than he let on. He craved violence and destruction, like Martin. The difference was that Martin was a beast of rage, where Abominigar drank his opponents' suffering like wine. This was easy to supply.

Oghma enjoyed manipulating mortals; the more affluent the better. Allow her some slaves or kings and she'll go with anything you want. Just keep her away from Korluxa, as Oghma doesn't respect anyone.

Ennael was a dutiful creature; created to serve, designed to work. She was broken, like an unregulated clock, but in her essence, she was still the same. It was loop logic; she served Turenval because she served Turenval. She had other, minor motivations, but they were a secondary concern to her at all times.

Silvanus was the newest member and his motivations in life carried over to the next one and like the other death knights, he was slowly being frozen solid into a grotesque caricature of his former self through Turenval's constant manipulations. His motivation was hedonism and pleasure; he wanted to maximize his happiness and the timespan over which it happened; to live long and live happily.

Invidia was insane to the bone. She was very precise in her requirements. She didn't want countless mooks to slaughter, nor strong opponents to challenge. She wanted something between that; a pack of elite enemies to hunt down.

Kakarot was a tinker at heart, even though it was rotten. He built gadgets for building's sake, but he didn't want to just throw them into the bin, so he threw them at various opportunities, even if they were destroyed by it.

 

[LostHaven]

Arcanecrylhik

Chapter 1: Wasted Days

Spoiler

"The soul is an entity which exists alongside the body. However, it cannot be perceived by normal means. The soul is what allows for us as mages to cast magic. However, each wizard has their limits- each soul is composed of meridians, which determine the capacity of a person's magical energy. Our mana capacity is very limited, and we much like physical stamina, our magic energy will exhaust when pushed too far."

The professor's eyes darted around the room, beaming at his students. The boys and girls scribbled down every word that the professor had spoken out- they all sat in attention, waiting for the professor to continue his lecture.

"While we often assume that mana is blue, it is in re-"

He was suddenly interrupted by a very loud snore and the professor's facial expression immediately soured.

"Why again! Do not sleep in my class!"

The professor angrily strode toward very back of the classroom. The students there were all leering at one particular student, his face buried into the desk. He had long, unkempt golden hair, which made him look like a ball of golden strands with his face completely glued on to his desk. Raising his textbook, the professor struck the rude student right on the back of the head. A loud smack resonated throughout the classroom, followed by a cacophony of varied reactions, from that of surprised or shocked that the professor had smacked another student, to that of disbelief that a student would have the audacity to fall asleep during a class. Some were even laughing.

"Snork?"

Faust made a confused snore as he finally awoke from his daydream. Glancing around, he noticed the professor glaring daggers at him.

"Huh? Teach? Do you have a vendetta against me? Murder gets you thrown into a jail, you know right?"

Faust casually asked, still half asleep.

"FAUST WINDFALLOW!"

The professor yelled angrily. He was almost at his limit now.

"Waaah! Dafuck?!"

Faust yelled in response, finally fully awake. More students would begin to whsiper among themselves: 'yep, this kids done for' or 'he should've been expelled ages ago' or 'you can't expect much from filthy commoners'. Comments usually ranged from discussing Faust's imminent doom to general insults on the lower class. Grinning menacingly, the professor spoke out with faked friendliness.

"Faust, would you please be so kind to pick up where I left off?"

Not getting the hint that the professor wanted him to read off of the textbook, Faust focused everything on manifesting his mana. Waving his hand, Faust left behind a trail of magical energy in the air, which shimmered a bright red.

"uuh, arcane magic?"

Faust said in his usual obnoxious, carefree tone. More whispers would be uttered that day.

"Hey, stupid commoner! Arcane magic is blue, not red!"

Another student shouted out from the front of the classroom.

"No, on the contrary, you're the idiot, fuckwit."

Faust retorted.

"Mana is actually colorless. It can be manifested as any color on the rainbow, only uninformed pigs would think it's the absolute truth that mana is blue. That's just the most common color people use, dumbass. I've read ahead..."

Growling, the student shut his mouth as he returned to revising his notes. Faust, this filthy commoner had potential to surpass half the teachers in this school, and more potential than this entire class and almost all the class knew it. Shaking his head, the professor returned to the front of the classroom while uttering: "Imagine what you can achieve if you put more effort into your studies."

"Wah, fuck this. Wake me up when the class is finished, this bullshit is dead easy. I don't understand which half-witted moron would need a teacher to read words from a book to them. Don't all you donkeys know how to read?"

Faust called out unnecessarily loudly, before nestling his face into the desk once more. More than one student glared at the golden-haired sorcerer, and the professor gave a disapproving shaking of his head. Sighing, the professor resumed his lesson, having given up on trying to make that problem-child to listen. Some students began to plot between them. They clearly weren't taking it- this foul-mouthed peasant would try to look down on them? This fool would need to be given some... extra lessons.

"Windfallow, you're dead to me."

Chapter 2: Extracurricular Lessons

Spoiler

"Hey Faust. What did the professor do to you this time?"

Faust turned his head around, eyes scanning for the source of the familiar voice. They stopped and gazed over at a white-haired girl, taller than him.

"Nothing. He can't pull out my grades and give me a mouthful. They're higher than most the class, and he knows it."

He replied to his peer. He'd known Natalie for a while- she studied under the same teacher as Faust. His teacher also happens to be Natalie's mother.

"Don't you think it's wrong to sleep in class?"

"No. This is my life, and I choose what I do with it."

"But is it not common courtesy to at least pay attention?"

"Society is a bunch of bullshit, Nat."

Natalie stared at Faust in annoyance. Faust caught on to her glare, and sighed to himself. "This world isn't fair, Nat. Some things come naturally, others are completely unachievable."

"Coming from a filthy nobody. You can try to crawl out of the filthy hellhole you came from, but you can't"

An annoyingly cocky voice came from behind Natalie. Faust tiled his head slightly, to see past his friend. He caught sight of a figure that irritated him just by gazing at it- meticulously combed hair, an expensive set of robes, eyes burning with pride. Pride that Faust had challenged.

"Do you think you can insult me and get away with it?"

The student threatened menacingly. Faust rolled his eyes, sticking his hands into his pockets. Faust wore a long black cloak that almost touched the ground, and underneath it was a simple tunic. He quickly glanced over Natalie- she too, wore some extravagant cloak, complete with a hood. She would sometimes wear a cape, but Natalie didn't seem to have it today.

"Don't roll your eyes! Be honored I even let you lay your filthy eyes on me, you dirty peasant!"

"I'll consider treating you like a real person once you get your head pulled out of your fucking ass. Right now, it's shoved so far up there its no wonder you have so much trouble making friends that you need to get your rich-ass daddy to throw extravagant parties just so you won't feel like the lonely fat little fuck you are."

That did it- the kid was pissed beyond mortal comprehension.

"WHY YOU LITTLE FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! I'LL TEACH YOU MANNERS!"

He hollered at Faust before he uttered an incantation and fired a ball of fire at Faust's direction. Faust picked up a chair and blocked the fireball, before he threw the wrecked chair at his attacker. Faust's opponent dodged the chair but tripped over another one. Taking advantage of that, Faust strode up to him, and delivered a kick to his side. Then, he uttered an incantation, a shard of ice flying at the poor kid on the floor. It struck him in the arm, spilling blood, and he squealed in pain.

"Let that be a lesson. This 'dirty peasant' will be more than you will ever be."

Delivering another kick against the unfortunate kid's head, Faust strode out of the classroom. Natalie followed shortly after, gazing behind at the student on the floor, before catching up to Faust.

"Faust you just..."

"I'm dead, I know. And I don't care."

Chapter 3: A Small Wager

Spoiler

"I can't believe you got expelled! How fucking stupid are you?!"

Faust recoiled in fear, a demon of a woman towering over him.

"He deserved it."

"He did."

"Then why the fuck are you mad?"

"Because you should know better to attack a kid whose rich daddy has an arseload of influence."

"No he doesn't, he's just rich."

"My point proven."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't fucking be! When I saw that letter, I laughed so fucking hard I choked on my lunch!"

The woman offered Faust a hi-five, which Faust happily accepted. A loud slap ensued.

'Z-ZAP'

Faust yelped, as he lept back, landing flat on his rear. He brought his hand in front of him, and inspected it- it was totally red. The woman was laughing hysterically. Faust gave her a cold stare.

"Goddammit."

"That's what you get for being expelled. I didn't save you from a burning village to raise a delinquent."

"You'd prefer me to turn into one of those cocky flashy mages that only ever care about being famous as fuck?"

"Nevermind, forget I said anything."

Scarlet looked at her student, shaking her head and letting out a heavy sigh. This was not how she had pictured things to be- She had only taken Faust in for one and a half years, and this idiot already got himself kicked out of school. Crossing her arms, she exclaimed: "Very well then, I'll teach you myself. I assume your professors didn't teach you jackshit?"

"Yeah. He was going on about the color of mana this morning."

"Seriously? Mana is red, everybody knows that."

"It's colorless."

"It's actually rainbow."

"Same difference."

Scarlet shook her head annoyed, and shoved her middle finger in his face.

"Go fuck yourself."

Faust rolled his eyes, pulled both his hands out his pockets, and gave his teacher the double middle finger.

"How do you suppose I'm meant to do that?"

"It's called a dildo, idiot."

"And you wonder why you never got a teaching job."

They both laughed, before Faust abruptly went silent.

"Huh? Is it something on my face?" Scarlet questioned, somewhat puzzled as to why Faust had stopped laughing.

"So, you're gonna teach me stuff?"

"Yep."

"So, are you ever going to teach me Necromancy?"

Suddenly, Scarlet's face went dead-serious.

"How did you?"

"I snooped around in the basement."

"The one I specifically told you to not go near?"

"Yep."

Sighing, Scarlet shrugged.

"Well, I kinda expected you to go in there..."

"So?"

"You realize necromancy is illegal as fuck?"

"Yep."

"Rethink your choices."

"Then teach me your arcane magic."

"Well, that's a wi-"

"and then teach me necromancy."

"You're really not going to back down on this?"

"Nope."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't."

"Is the great Raven-Masked Magus scared that her apprentice is going to surpass her?"

"Was that a challenge?"

"Yes. If I win, I get your mask."

"That's going to take years, probably decades. I bet you're going give up before then."

"You'd be dead before I even have the slightest thought of giving up."

"You're fucking on."

Chapter 4: Sacrifice

Spoiler

"Faust! No! What's gotten into your head?!"

Natalie continued to protest against what would surely be a very poor choice. However, he words would no longer reach her friend. Faust's mind was already made. "I have no qualms against your mother's plans. I intend to go forward with the ritual as intended."

"Faust! You're fucked in the head! How could you stand for the use of such evil magic?!"

"Natalie, listen to me. There's no 'evil' magic. The dead envy the living, and the living despise the dead. Necromancy is considered 'evil' only because we of humanity know that those 'wretched' unliving are above us. Since when was liches always evil?"

Two years came and went. Though Faust had been expelled, he continued to study under Natalie's mother, Scarlet. In the course of two years, Faust's abilities as a spellcaster would already rival any full-fledged sorcerer. However, in both his and Scarlet's curiosity, they both dabbled in the art of necromancy- a practice that was looked down upon as fundamentally evil, due to the nature of this field of magic. Faust sighed, wondering if another path was indeed optimal.

"I've done the research. The process of becoming a lich varies heavily depending on the person. I do not believe some heinous act has to be committed in my case."

"You're going to become a monster, and behind your own daughter's back, no less?"

"No. I will tell Natalie."

"You know she's going to object, right?"

They both worked tirelessly, only to quench their own curiosity. The ritual to become the highest form of undead: the lich. The planning took a very long time. Every detail of the ritual must be immaculate, or consequences could be dire. It was not only the research and planning, however. Obtaining a phylactery in itself was a huge hassle. From expensive to illicit materials, it was a hell of a hunt to obtain every last ingredient to create the phylactery. Faust knew that Scarlet planned on keeping the power to herself; he had only agreed to assist as a result of his own boredom. It was time for something that was a little more intriguing than the arcane.

"Do what you will, Nat. My mind is made."

With that, Faust turned his back to Natalie, and walked away. How could he be so calm? Natalie thought to herself angrily. She wanted to call him a waste of potential, but even she knew- in the two years, Faust had become a formidable spellcaster. "Damn it. I won't leave you two doing something like that..."

As Faust walked away, he grinned. The pieces were set in place.

...

Faust watched in faked horror, as necromantic magicks devoured Scarlet. His facade continued, even as she strode up to him, her form failing. Then, in a gesture that surprised even Faust, she placed her raven mask in his hands. "Grats. You won the bet," were her last words, as her body withered into nothingness. Gazing at the metallic mask, Faust slid it on. Then, he turned to check on Natalie. She had been out cold from the initial burst of magic. A glint of malice shone in Faust's eyes, and a wicked grin spread across his face. Picking up the tome, Faust continued to chant. A dark violet glow began to emanate from the phylactery, signaling that the ritual was continuing without fail.

All of a sudden, the second burst of dark energy exploded forth from the phylactery before the air finally calmed down. At that moment, Faust realized that he could no longer feel the itch in his eye. Neither did his blocked nose bother him anymore- as a matter of fact, the lack of breathing didn't seem to affect him at all. Then, he laughed. "AHAAAHAHAAAHA."

Turning to Natalie, Faust continued to grin under the mask. Extending out his palm, Faust chanted another spell.

"Arca Elteras"

...

Faust teleported himself outside of the workshop before the entire building collapsed on itself. Naught but a single crater was left where it once stood. Then, arcane energy exploded outward, as the rubble of the former workshop was sent flying in all directions from the single tear in reality. Only as Faust watched the ruins of what was once the place he had called home, did he finally see his sin.

"What in the---"

Chapter 5: Recurring Torment

Spoiler

Nodding and seemingly satisfied with his result, Faust shut his book. He placed it gently on his desk and then sighed heavily. His plan had carried out without fail- he achieved his goal. He achieved the power he sought. So why did he feel so empty? Overwhelming sorrow? Shaking the haunting thoughts out of his head, Faust raised himself from his seat and gazed around. Unfortunately, there was close to nothing to gaze at. He reminded himself that he was in a silent workshop, hidden deep underground in the desolation. Annoyed, Faust returned to his seat. There was no other way to put it- he was bored out of his mind.

He was suddenly alerted by a crashing noise, followed by the cries of his gate-guardian. "What the fuck?" Faust muttered, as he walked his way to what was essentially his front door. There, he was greeted by a sight that startled even him. The hulking undead monstrosity that was his doorkeeper lay motionless on the ground, burnt to a cinder. His eyes behind his silver masked darted toward the one who had slain his creation...
...
...

"No."

Faust simply said to himself, eyes widened in absolute shock. The very sight of the figure before him caused his aching heart to sink. White hair, golden eyes, Faust hadn't forgotten that face, even in a decade. What was it? An illusion? No, Faust would have immediately recognized an illusion. The creature that stood before him was flesh and blood. "Shapeshifter?" Faust asked out loud, glaring at the imposter.

"Nope. I'm real. It took a very long time to find you in your hole in the ground."

"Lies."

Without warning, Faust waved his hand and sent out a flurry of icicles at Natalie. She made her best attempt to dodge Faust's initial attack, but only managed to slip with several icicles impaling her chest.

"Faust! Don't tell me you hit your head in that explosion!"

Natalie's words only served to further infuriate the lich. "Leave, or I will kill you. I remember full well of what had transpired that night- Natalie Arcanecrylhik is dead. You're just some demon posing as her."

Faust raised his hand, and magic circles appeared in the air. Then, swords of ice began to fly out of them, at a remarkable speed. Natalie took the majority of the attack, already beaten to the ground. Blood spurted from her mouth, as Faust slowly strode toward her, dagger in hand. "Any mortal would have died. As I thought- you're just an imposter. And don't tell me you somehow look 18 despite the years."

"Dang, looks like we're going to have to beat his ass so he listens!" Natalie growled, to herself? Faust noted that her voice had changed.

"AndI have not a doubt that you are fake now."

Faust raised his dagger, and brought it down on Natalie and D'Izzor. However, in a surprising turn, D'Izzor intercepted Faust's attack with her bare hands, and forced Faust to drive the blade into his own stomach. "Listen up, you cocky little shit. Natalie wasted ten bloody years to find you, at least hear what she's got to say. Dick."

Faust pulled the blade from his stomach, and blood trailed from his wound and to the ground. He seemed completely unfazed by the attack.

"Then speak, before I slice you limb from limb."

"Faust! Damn it! You're going to do a crazy ritual, and run off?!"

"Silence."

Faust drove the dagger through Natalie's throat, damaging her vocal chords. Faust sighed in relief as he finally shut the imposter up. Then, he opened his palm, and a sword made of ice materialized in his empty hand. He bashed Natalie in the head with the sword's hilt, before bringing it down to her shoulder, digging into her side.

"We need to do something before he literally tears us into bits!"

"Seriously? It was your idea. Get out of this yourself."

Natalie began to panic internally, as Faust brought another sword to her face. In her desperation, Natalie pulled the dagger from her throat, and screamed:

"Goddammit, you fucking idiot!"

Faust paused in his tracks... Removing his mask, he raised an eyebrow and gave Natalie a confused expression. The negative energy that permeated Faust's workshop seemed to have healed her wounds at an astounding rate.

"Eh?"

"For fuck's sake, I always thought you were an imbecile! Do you want me to spurt out every last embarrassing secret to make you believe me?!"

"Do you know what you're even saying?"

"Did school ever teach you proper manners? Or did you never get education? Oh wait, you were expelled. For assaulting a kid, as well! What the fuck do you ever think about?! Are there rocks in your head?! And of all places to hide some steamy romance novel, you choose under your pillow? That's like, the easiest place to find it!"

"Wait, how the fuck?"

"I snooped in your room, duh."

"Go fuck yourself."

"How do you think I'm meant to do that?"

"It's called a dildo, Natalie."

They both laughed hysterically. Faust suddenly came to the realization that the person that stood before him was probably not some demon who wanted to suck his soul or something- though he told himself to remain cautious.

"You sound like mum now. What, does everybody who wears her mask become a fucking asshole?"

"You're calling your mother an asshole?"

"So you believe me now?"

"If your story sounds plausible enough. Like, how you avoided being utterly obliterated."

"Can I at least come inside?"

Faust let out a defeated sigh, as he allowed Natalie inside his workshop. "Any dodgy stuff, and you're going to get incinerated and have your soul fed to a dullahan." Faust warned, wiping his dagger clean of blood. He was still unsure whether he'd need to use it. "Then, speak up or I'll permanently cut your vocal chords out."

 

[Yahhah]

The Pikehead Slaughter​

A cloudy sky overlooked a forested clearing. The forest was quiet. There was none of the usual birdsong or rustles of deer that frolicked Verniir. Suddenly a pair of shrubs parted and a Leonine warrior stepped out. Sitting astride a spotted horse. In its hands it held a long pole with a turtle shell attached to one end, with shards of stone embedded into it.
The Leonine had red over its eyes giving the appearance of a mask. Its flowing mane was matted. It was followed by more of its kind. Most walking, a few on horses. One particular brute stood out from the rest. For one he stood at least a head taller than the rest.
Ceefar, The Scourge. Newly assigned leader of the Leonine tribe. The blessing of the gods was still new to him. The fresh energy, and strength the magic granted him still made him feel unstoppable. His mane was braided and it fell to both sides of his massive chest. In one hand he had a large club made from bone and wood. The other held a long spear. The point was made from some kind of horn or tusk.
The massive creature walked in front of his troops and gave a command with his deep harsh voice. “Kill fighters. Take the weak. Their chieftain will be offered to Leonivar” shouted the Scourge. With that the warband charged forward. Breaking into the swampy forest.
A Tigaran lookout was quickly silenced before it could blow any warning horn.
In the village of the Pikehead colony the Tigaran chieftain, Khlain stood proudly watching the cubs of the village play. The old muscled Tigaran gave a bit of chuffing laughter. These would be the next generation of his tribe. Too bad it was never to be.
Screams of death, and roars of defiance reached the ears of the chief. The chief grabbed a large stone axe and ran to battle. The chieftain backhanded a Leonine preparing to stab a Juvenile Tigaran. With the blessing of the gods the Leonine was sent sprawling.
Khlain helped up the fallen one and handed it an axe. He gave a rasp. “For Tigarivar”. Then the two of them charged forward giving the failing Tigarans new vigor. Klhain ran in to battle lashing out with fists, and claws. The chieftain was the only area where Tigarans held victory. The raiding party was prepared for battle, the Pikehead was not. Tools stood in place of weapons. Some fought with bare claws, against the spears, and clubs of the Leonine.
And when one area began to show favor to the striped ones the Scourge appeared quickly killing every fighter. The inevitable happened. The only Tigaran fighter left was Khlain himself. The chieftain was overwhelmed and brought into a space surrounded by barking Leonines. The Scourge stepped out, the massive Leonine dropped both of his weapons and roared. Riling up his forces.
The message was simple. A single combat challenge. It was an old way that tribal disputes used to be settled. The tribes chose two champions and they fought against each other alone and weaponless. A challenge between two chieftains had never occurred.
Khlain brought himself up and growled. Khlain had been the Tigaran chief for many years. Even the blessing could not stop the aging process.
The two chieftains faced each other down and charged. Meeting in the center and grappling ferociously. Their battle was long, bloody, and gruesome but in the end. The Scourge with fresh blessing running through his veins felled the old Tigaran Chieftain.
The Leonine troops roared and jostled each other aside. Relishing in their chief’s victory. The Pikehead was looted and destroyed. Young, old, and weak Tigarans were taken as sacrifice for Leonivar and it was weeks before the slaughter was discovered by the Clayhide.
This led to two major events of Verniiran history. The alliance between the Jage, and the Tigaran against the Leonine. And a Tigaran power struggle that still left echos on modern day Verniir when the first explorers arrived.

 

[Birdsie]

Bad Fanfiction (When I Get Drunk)

Spoiler

In the depths of Vendi-Ka, the Lord of Trembling Bones found himself faced with two opponents. Turenval sat upon a silver throne, surrounded by flickering, magical lights. As ordered, Verraketh stood back and watched, forbidden from intervening.

"What is it you desire?" he venomously questioned, standing up from his throne. "My lordships?" His lips contorted into a grin.

Turenval's body wasn't rotten as a lich's. It was pale, static as if a human being died and moved around; its body forever stuck in appearance as it was at the moment of death, but in addition to some peculiar traits, like pearl-white glossy hair streaking to his shoulders and glowing, orange eyes like wells of ancient power. His body seemed young, in its late teens to early twenties.

The God Who Destroys Evil, The Transformer, Shiva; and Amaterasu, The Great August Kami Who Shines In Heaven. They decided to put an end to this madness, once and for all. They had manifested their avatars and drew on their power together.

"Stop," the goddess of sunlight said. "Cease your immoral actions!"

"Is that an order... or a plea?" He sidestepped unobtrusively, down the stairs and to their level.

"A statement, I believe," Verraketh threw a quip.

"Evil always swaggers when victorious, but cowers when outmatched." A trident flashed into Shiva's hand.

Turenval turned his ear in Shiva's direction. "W-Wha? Sorry, what? I didn't hear you with that fear-dick in your mouth."

"Kakatte koi yo," Amaterasu scoffed. She raised her hands and they glowed with bright light. In an instant, a lance of light fired at Turenval. Then a second, a third, a fourth. She channeled more power into a final attack and fired a miniature sun - five meters in diameter - at the Lich.

The Demilich stood there as the attacks faded before even reaching halfway across the throne room. The sun flew further, a few of its sparks almost reaching Turenval.

Shiva ran forward and thrust his trident; enchanted to obliterate and remove anything it hits from existence. Turenval sidestepped the attack and kicked behind him, throwing the helpless god into and through a wall.

He was prepared for Amaterasu's counter-offense. He lifted his arm and erected a deflection barrier that fired back seven consecutive shots of crystallized sunlight at her, but the goddess ran across the room and they failed to hit.

She jumped into the air and leaped, swooping down like a phoenix and erecting flame around herself. She wanted to slam into the ground and send the lich flying, but she found herself intercepted. Before she hit the floor, Turenval casually teleported to the spot where she'd land and locked his hand around her throat. A millisecond passed and she teleported away -- a millisecond longer and her avatar would be dead.

Shiva stabbed from behind Turenval, but a spectral sword appeared, its hilt on level with the Lich's head. It spun, knocking the trident to the side and effectively being disintegrated, but Shiva repeated the attack only to find himself deflected the same way by another sword.

Turenval jumped behind Shiva, performing a backward somersault. Two morningstars appeared in his hands and he attacked from the left and right at once. Shiva put his trident diagonally and parried the strike by thrusting his trident's length forward. The morningstars dusted.

Amaterasu's body glowed brightly as the floor tiles below her feet began to melt. She launched like a shooting star. Turenval kicked her off-course with telekinesis before she could hit him, and he replied to Shiva's next thrust by simply catching the middle blade of the trident in a reinforced mage hand spell. He thrust it back at Shiva, hitting his stomach with the pommel -- the force of the attack was big enough to crush a golem's entire body five times over, but concentrated into one spot.

Shiva flew backward five meters and Amaterasu moved in to protect him, but Turenval reached out with his hands and locked them in place, freezing them. It took the two deities two seconds to dispel the magic, but by that time, Turenval fired a wave of green acid toward them. The floor melted and crumbled as it splashed against it, until the last of the wave reached the two gods.

Shiva released a burst of holy force, making it fly back at Turenval. The acid stuck to his skin but didn't burn. Like droplets of water.

"I think I'm done playing," he stated. His hand glowed dark purple with a circular ring around it. "You're tearing up my palace."

A sword appeared in his hand. A longsword with intricate, purple sigil designs along its blade and silver skulls at the crossguard with shining purple eyes. An anti-essence weapon. It connected with the original host of any being and brought death to them. If you were to astrally project and then your projection was struck by it, the magic would send a feedback loop to kill your original body as well.

In other words, a perfect weapon to kill a god.

Turenval looked at the two gods, standing once again. Twenty meters away from him. "Actually..." He flicked his wrist and the palace repaired itself. He let the anti-essence weapon disappear from his hand and he smiled. "If you still have spirit, then let's play. Ready for round two?"

Shiva moved forward and unleashed a barrage of trident strikes. From the sides, up and down, forward, step back, swing. Turenval casually deflected the strikes with spontaneously conjured swords in mid-air, or by leaning back a few centimeters. Finally, a pair of boulders appeared to Shiva's left and right.

Then, like cannonballs, they clashed together. Shiva jumped back, but another pair appeared and clashed as he jumped back again. This repeated several times until he stood exactly in the center of the room. Shiva threw his trident and deleted the boulders from existence with it.

In the meanwhile, Turenval deflected Amaterasu's magic attacks with purple jets of his own power. He didn't need to fire them from his hands; they simply manifested in mid-air and struck, always perfectly hitting where required to veer an attack off-course. The trident destroyed the boulders and went for Turenval.

The lich cackled and locked the trident in temporal stasis. Shiva ran forward, unarmed.

The lich let out a sickening cackle as a dozen magic circles opened parallel to his body and beams of black-stained negative energy fired from them in Shiva's direction and hit the god's body to minimal effect. Then, he reached his hand out and blasted the god with lightning, frying his skin and slowing him down to a near-stall. Amaterasu ran from another direction, spawning a fiery greatsword in her hands and swinging it at the lich. He held it at bay with a shield of roiling, green energy.

With one hand lighting, the other shielding. Turenval stopped doing both and instead collected energy inward before firing outward in an all-directional thunderwave. The two deities were thrown back, and their avatars were slowly being drained, whereas Turenval was still energetic -- being on his own territory.

"You are on my turf," Turenval clarified what everyone knew. "Your powers here are null, while mine are bolstered tenfold. I am a god, and you are mortals. Muda, muda, muda da! Hinjaku!"

Amaterasu stood up, clutching her collarbone for a second until it healed. She glared at the lich. Shiva stood already. Amaterasu scowled as she said,

"You arrogant cock-goblin!"

"You shut your horn off, woman! I can end you with a thought!" Turenval's hand grasped at the air and her entire body was paralyzed.

"Kurae!" Shiva moved in and threw a punch at the lich's back, hoping to incite obliteration. Turenval teleported beside him and kicked, then to another side, and punched, and again, and again, and again, until he decided to grasp his hands around Shiva's body and suplexed him into the ground brutally.

Amaterasu stood straight and witnessed what happened. "Shikata ga nai," Turenval said, looking at the maimed god. He faced Amaterasu cruelly. "I think I broke him."

"I... I will destroy you, bee-fucker."

Turenval got triggered. A record-scratch sound stopped the music. Bass-boosted earrape came on as everything turned red and his eyes glowed like white, furious stars. "Nani the fuck did you say, konoyaro?" Turenval said.

He teleported behind her. "Nani?"

"Pssh, it's nothin' personnel, kid," Turenval incited as he stabbed his hand and dug it into her chest, taking out her still-beating heart from it. Amaterasu fell over. "Yare, yare daze."

"K-Kuso..." She breathed in her last breath, still conscious as Turenval stated:

"Omae wo shindeiru..."

Another Darkness

Spoiler

Explanation: A universe where the Guild of Heroes failed. Elsimore, one of the very few remaining members tried fighting Verraketh one-on-one, using a secret spellfire technique. In the process, he hurt both himself and Verraketh and melted his meridians, disabling his magic. This is what happened after. (Elsimore's POV.)

Verraketh's shaken body wavered a bit as he hobbled onward to me. Even in his injured state, he kept his strength and maintained his pride. I didn't have it in me; I was too hurt to get up. I tried to move away from Verraketh, crawl on my back, but I didn't have the time. He slouched down and leisurely picked me up by the neck, lifting me from the ground. His grip was tight, even though his movement suggested he wasn't putting effort into it. In fact, I'd say he was concentrating to make sure he didn't just snap my neck by accident.

"Oh, how the tables have turned, Elsimore," he said with a note of grim satisfaction. "I won't kill you, no, no... no... That'd be too easy, now, wouldn't it?" I could practically feel the grin form under his demonic helmet.

"Let me go," I muttered venomously, more as a cry of desperation. I knew he wasn't going to, but my mind was racing to find a way out of this mess. I was afraid, fear grasping my mind just as Verraketh gripped my neck.

"You wish it was that easy, wouldn't you, Elsimore?" he hissed at me, his tone boiling with hatred. Verraketh tightened his grip just slightly; his fingers closed four to six more millimeters around my neck. Air couldn't pass through my windpipe and I began to choke.

"You wish that you could just... order me, enchant me. I bet you would, if you still had the energy. But your meridians just collapsed on themselves. Your soul is a sad, scarred, pathetic mess. Like you're about to be. And without the spellfire? You're useless to Lord Turenval. So I get to play with you, then kill you." There was clear sadism in his voice, an outright longing to inflict agony and pain on me.

"Release me... now..." I muttered as I began to feel it. Verraketh did something, cast some kind of curse, or poisoned me in some way. I felt it; salty-sweet with a faint metallic taste. Blood, filling my throat from below.

"Careful what you wish for. You might choke on your ambitions, and we wouldn't want that." He threw me, as casually as one might fling a pebble at his lover's window. My back hit the brick wall with a blunt thud. The concussion cracked my spine or at least did some other considerable damage to my back. I couldn't walk before, might not ever walk anymore.

Verraketh didn't approach. He stood there, watching as I scramble to support my chest off the ground with my hands. Every second I was in pain, trying to get up and make a movement. Every second I kept myself from tears. He relished it; he delighted in my suffering. Once my arms were fully extended, his armored feet gave the sound of quiet thuds, as he very slowly made his way over to me.

I expected him to pick me up again, monologue a bit more, but instead he delivered a painful kick to the area of my pancreas. As soon as he did, I hiccuped the blood that gathered in my mouth, and another streak of blood poured from my mouth as if he crushed a red-milk carton in my throat and made it spill. The kick threw me a meter away and I once again hit the wall, though it didn't have that same force from before.

I breathed, took every second of freedom from this monster's torture I had to breathe. He enjoyed the sight; he was pleased by it. I wasn't making it. The realization that this was my end, the end of the line, the last straw. I just couldn't keep it in me. I tried so hard, but it was all for nothing. I really thought I had it handled but all I ended up doing was making it worse. Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't want to cry and give Verraketh the satisfaction of seeing me in this state, but I couldn't help it. As soon as I blinked, tears spilled forward and my face turned bright red. Hard lines of anger, hatred and anguish appeared on my face. Verraketh reacted strongly to this and laughed, rather uncharacteristically for him. It was a mocking laughter; the laughter of someone confident of their victory.

I opened my mouth to speak, but blood gushed out like water from a bottle. I closed my mouth and spat out the blood on Verraketh's boot as, admittedly on my own account, a pathetic attempt at a final defiance. He found it amusing and delivered a lighter kick to my jaw with his bloodied foot. Even though it was lighter, notably from the movement and force, it still broke my jaw. I couldn't control it anymore, and I felt a dull pain spread all over my face. Saliva welled up in my mouth and mixed in with the blood, giving me a dry feeling as the last drops of cold sweat left my face. I breathed out and spat it all out over the ground, only a few droplets reaching his boot this time.

Verraketh crouched down and took off his helmet. For the first time, I saw his face. "I've dedicated my life to becoming powerful, all in order to fight legendary creatures and dominate them. Dragons, giants, titans. You name it. I've made them weak, pathetic. But you? I didn't need to do that with you. Do you want the truth, Elsimore?"

I didn't have the strength to speak, so I furrowed my nose and eyebrows to show, rather than tell him, that I hate this idea.

He said it anyway, "It's because you're pathetic already. You are the single, most miserable, sad, pitiful creature I've had the dishonor of fighting in all seven-hundred years of my life. But now I've had my fun, and I believe it's time to end this fairy tale of yours."

He stood and extended his right arm. I heard metallic clanging far away, as his sword flew into his hand. He looked down at me, disgusted, sneering. "Let me disillusion you. There is no heroism. No eternal peace. No happy endings. There is only death, and in your case? Only oblivion, because I'm not letting your soul go to the afterlife. I will terminate you. Make you an unperson. Goodbye, Elsimore."

I wanted to cry out one last time, or even release a hateful whimper to show how much I disdain him, but I couldn't. In half a second, it ended. Everything went black.

His Name Was Elsimore

Spoiler

A blue circle opened before him. Sitting on a rock for the last seventy years, he groggily looked up and faced what was on the other side. He picked up the staff he dug into the ground, then walked through and found himself in a flat meadow, with trees on the horizon. A goal was uploaded into his mind, and like a machine, he followed it.

He walked across roads, across cities, across mountains. On his way, many gazed at him and questioned the old wizard's appearance. He seldom gazed back, but when he did, it made those people stop. It made them think; what kind of things did he go through, that his gaze would be so resentful? So much cynism reflected in two eyes.

As he neared the fortress of the thirtieth dark lord he had to beat in his infinite lifetime, he held out his hand. A ball of silver emanated from it, the size of a baseball, while it emitted a sound similar to the tune of wind chimes. A symphony of impending doom.

The ball fired and hit the outer wall, obliterating everything inside. Every orc, every foul creature, every demon was vanquished from the body to the soul, leaving only carpet sweepings as proof of their past existence.

The dark lord being destroyed, a circular portal opened and he walked through, returning to his constant waiting. Years passed and he kept forgetting things from the past. His victories against various foes, his meetings with various people.

At this stage, hundreds of thousands of years had passed since he was born. This was no exaggeration. Of his mortal life, he remembered two things:

There was a girl, once upon a time. He didn't remember her name, or face, or who she was. Maybe a human, or maybe a goddess. But he remembered that she loved him, and that he loved her too.

And he remembered that his name was Elsimore.