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Fantasy TOTTDLMTH Episode 2
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Pilgrim59
Certified Butterbar 🧈
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Previously on TOTTDLMTH...
Commander Sylvia and Laure returned from their meeting with the Chancellor at Barley's Keep, brokering a gathering among their recently-distant compatriots. Whilst the Companions take refuge in the day's leisure to cast away their buried glooms, a tumultuous zephyr preyed upon the city of Dragonsreach. A quickly-forgotten adversary returns.The off-guard Companions gathered for their feast in the evening. The Hero announced the official disbandment of the Company, unveiling the truth of the soiree to be a melancholic one. Meanwhile, Sylvia learned of Irelia's disposition and let them be on their way.
Scattered throughout Grozny ever since the Daemon Lord fell from Mount Hornet, the Harbingers kept to themselves in the shadows. Hershey's fateful arrival in Dragonsreach quickly united two friendly faces - the unyielding swordsman Hassan and the self-proclaimed golem master Galius. Hershey imparted her knowledge about an imprisoned Harbinger. For reasons unspoken, Hershey was poised on uniting the Harbingers again. Taking advantage of the night, the Harbingers conducted a prison heist to free Bisila, another Harbinger during the war, from Nova Heights. During their raid, Hassan stumbled upon two mysterious entities that proved far more sinister than the average Imperial squarebacks. Amidst their escape, Hershey took a detour to pay visit to 59th Street.
Episode II
Out of the drifting clouds emerged two black apparitions, whose parallel forms circled the grand city of Dragonsreach from above. Skillfully, they tossed and turned with grace, before spreading their wings upon contact with the early morning light. As their plotted course of descent marked their exposure beneath the glowing Sol, the pair of gliding riders shrunk their velocity. Two black-armored riders encircling Fort Vesta in the early breaking dawn."It never gets old up here." said one of them via the anprac satchel on their saddle.
"Sure doesn't. Doesn't this remind you of our Bagram night sweeps?"
"Well, aside from the feckin' sands and camping out in the desert with ridiculously-high chances of being eaten by Sand Wyrms, then aye, I suppose it is not that much different from Bagram."
"Right? Heads up, light gust brushing up on your left."
"Got it. Easy girl. That's it, Joanna, good girl. We're steadying at two-twenty emmas and slowing. Call it in."
"Vesta Towers, this is Morningstar Two-Three and Two-Four coming in from our coastal sweep, requesting permission to land and clock-out, conclude." said one of the knights, opening a hatch in their unlit lanterns.
One of the ground operators lifted their similarly designed instruments, prompting them to relay an affirmation when the device displayed the oncoming wyvern riders' flashing strobes that are invisible to the naked eye.
"Morningstar, this is Tower, you are clear for landing. Welcome back night ravens, there's still some skullmelon pie leftovers in the mess hall. Best hurry before those boys from Kaiser Squadron beat you to it. Tower Out." replied the voice, as the two Drakensreiter landed on the runway, shutting their lanterns off.
Frosted snow descended upon Dragonsreach's metaled road. The early winter morning seemed as mundane as yesterday. To some, it was a grim reminder of the fateful march towards Mount Hornet. The Companions, now officially discharged, are bound only by the obligations of their morality. While they may have buried their wars across the World's Edge, old enemies rise from their graves. The Harbingers, having risked their necks to free one of their comrades from Nova Heights, must now look to their pockets or sleep in the snow. The hunters are now the hunted, right beneath the Imperial noses. Following their recent prison heist, much of Dragonsreach are now on edge.
The Daemon Lord, awakened from a horrid dream filled with nonsensical visions, must seek answers. Meanwhile, the Hero hurried themselves over to Nova Heights upon the first glance of the Grozette headlines. After the rain, there was mud. Brazen deceits and twisted truths, how far will they get before the trails are entangled?
Location: Haven
IRIS Objective: Investigate Nova Heights Incident or Explore Haven
HARB Objective: Improve current living standards or Explore Haven
"Home of the sacred and the profane. The epicenter of hope and despair.
The core of all that is benign and apathetic. The legendary and the mundane.
A place where some unturned stones are worth more than a hundred lives.
While the impious ruled over the pious.
I wonder, O' Nameless One, what tale will you live in twenty scores?"
- The Reach, Empress Arisha the Dark (783 AC)
IRIS Objective: Investigate Nova Heights Incident or Explore Haven
HARB Objective: Improve current living standards or Explore Haven
"Home of the sacred and the profane. The epicenter of hope and despair.
The core of all that is benign and apathetic. The legendary and the mundane.
A place where some unturned stones are worth more than a hundred lives.
While the impious ruled over the pious.
I wonder, O' Nameless One, what tale will you live in twenty scores?"
- The Reach, Empress Arisha the Dark (783 AC)
Worthlessplebian
Zariel
Doctor Nope
Midrick
Remembrance
Nessi
Celestial Speck
Huntertabbysandshark3
ElenaIsCool
Soviet Panda
Trappy
Last edited:
Pilgrim59
Certified Butterbar 🧈
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The pendulum swung, testing the patience of the solitary Grandmaster. Whether or not d'Orier's imparted intelligence was accurate or not, it presented Friedhelm with an opportunity to finally hold Sylvia and her retinue accountable. Yet, there was a part of him that have yet to execute that notion, keeping his hand from issuing the order he had long written upon his desk. A probable cause, a written warrant, and the Empress's eyes upon his endeavor. Alas, the man would not move, for a certain sentiment kept his personal grievances at bay. If it was not for the hero, he would have drowned on Wyvern Beach. He had hoped that the Angel of Verdan would adhere to his words. For every passing seconds, he clung onto his deep-seated feeling to relinquish his grasps. Hopeful that his expected informant would abate all the pre-conceived truths from his mind. He did not trust d'Orier, not now, or ever. But even if he did not conform to the man's words, he could not in his conscience deny the facts. All these thoughts quickly dissipated when he received a courier at the door. A decision was made for him.
Within minutes, the attendants of the Keep watched on as an array of jet-black paladins followed their Grandmaster down the grand hall. By columns, they swept the hall clean of murmurs and thoughts. With zeal in their synchronized steps and purpose in their invisible eyes, it was clear that Friedhelm had a fish to catch for the day, and there was no one to dissuade him off his mission. The Black Knights mounted their steeds in one coordinated saddling action that seemed as if they were replications of their leading commander. The occupied staging ground quickly emptied its inhabitants. From the Sky Garden, it seemed as if the stable had unleashed a black horde upon the city. A malevolent force of cavalry that have not been seen by Dragonsreach since the exodus of the Havenite Expeditionary Force. As Friedhelm rode forth, his eyes were hidden beneath his czapka, well-aware of what must be done. But this was no ordinary hunt.
Sylvia, accompanied by Odhran and Preston were nearing the latter's clinic, in preparations for their next course of action, were acquitted of their recent discussions at the Ortolan. As the trio recounted Preston's discoveries. Amidst the quiet discourse, Sylvia got up from her seat gradually, motioning her companions to be still. Her eyes fixed on the door, as the eerie silence prolonged. Glasses quickly shatter, as multiple canisters entered the room. A few sparks followed, unleashing a thick smoke screen. A loud bang on the door caused it to come tumbling to the side, as a rank of black silhouettes parted the smokescreen. The distinct thud in unison were none other than the typical squareback anti-riot formation.
Friedhelm, of whom was standing tall over his men on the street, shot his death-like glares towards the besieged building. Watchers and vigiles urbani surrounded him and the rest of the streets. Some in cover, others formed up in a double-rank firing formation. Most of the riflemen's weapons were fashioned with non-lethal adaptors, meant to cause bruises. While close-quarter troopers were equipped with batons and blunt weapons. Several magic support units on scene had already conjured their binding spells to be fired at any point. Even with these in place, Friedhelm was sure that it was not enough to bring the stubborn Angel of Verdan back in one piece. The Grandmaster had a piece of parchment within his reach. A signed document that justified his presence. Neither a courteous notification nor a stout proclamation, Friedhelm had already let his dogs of war loose. Knowing Sylvia and her companions, they will not adhere to his words. The only frequency that befit them was swift actions. Having taken precautions with a ten-blocks perimeter and fortified checkpoints, Friedhelm was not going to let Sylvia walk away. Even now, the hero's home had already been besieged by the rest of his Order.
Friedhelm withdrew a green grozium from his pocket, tossing it slightly in the air, before throwing his hands forth to form a diamond. The diamond was brought back to his chin, then rotated inward towards himself. The grozium glowed as it levitated above his hands, echoing his voice towards the clinic.
"You knew better than this, Sylvia. It's over, do not attempt to resist. This is your one and only warning!"
The irony in Friedhelm's mission was the warrant for the siege. Of all the things he could pin on the Iris Company, it was their possession of illegal substances. The Grandmaster could only hope that Sylvia could see the situation she is in. Should she defy his orders here and now, she would not only make an enemy of him, but of Haven as well. The vanguard of shielded troopers continued to march into the clinic slowly, checking their corners in anticipation of a counter-assault.
Within minutes, the attendants of the Keep watched on as an array of jet-black paladins followed their Grandmaster down the grand hall. By columns, they swept the hall clean of murmurs and thoughts. With zeal in their synchronized steps and purpose in their invisible eyes, it was clear that Friedhelm had a fish to catch for the day, and there was no one to dissuade him off his mission. The Black Knights mounted their steeds in one coordinated saddling action that seemed as if they were replications of their leading commander. The occupied staging ground quickly emptied its inhabitants. From the Sky Garden, it seemed as if the stable had unleashed a black horde upon the city. A malevolent force of cavalry that have not been seen by Dragonsreach since the exodus of the Havenite Expeditionary Force. As Friedhelm rode forth, his eyes were hidden beneath his czapka, well-aware of what must be done. But this was no ordinary hunt.
Sylvia, accompanied by Odhran and Preston were nearing the latter's clinic, in preparations for their next course of action, were acquitted of their recent discussions at the Ortolan. As the trio recounted Preston's discoveries. Amidst the quiet discourse, Sylvia got up from her seat gradually, motioning her companions to be still. Her eyes fixed on the door, as the eerie silence prolonged. Glasses quickly shatter, as multiple canisters entered the room. A few sparks followed, unleashing a thick smoke screen. A loud bang on the door caused it to come tumbling to the side, as a rank of black silhouettes parted the smokescreen. The distinct thud in unison were none other than the typical squareback anti-riot formation.
Friedhelm, of whom was standing tall over his men on the street, shot his death-like glares towards the besieged building. Watchers and vigiles urbani surrounded him and the rest of the streets. Some in cover, others formed up in a double-rank firing formation. Most of the riflemen's weapons were fashioned with non-lethal adaptors, meant to cause bruises. While close-quarter troopers were equipped with batons and blunt weapons. Several magic support units on scene had already conjured their binding spells to be fired at any point. Even with these in place, Friedhelm was sure that it was not enough to bring the stubborn Angel of Verdan back in one piece. The Grandmaster had a piece of parchment within his reach. A signed document that justified his presence. Neither a courteous notification nor a stout proclamation, Friedhelm had already let his dogs of war loose. Knowing Sylvia and her companions, they will not adhere to his words. The only frequency that befit them was swift actions. Having taken precautions with a ten-blocks perimeter and fortified checkpoints, Friedhelm was not going to let Sylvia walk away. Even now, the hero's home had already been besieged by the rest of his Order.
Friedhelm withdrew a green grozium from his pocket, tossing it slightly in the air, before throwing his hands forth to form a diamond. The diamond was brought back to his chin, then rotated inward towards himself. The grozium glowed as it levitated above his hands, echoing his voice towards the clinic.
"You knew better than this, Sylvia. It's over, do not attempt to resist. This is your one and only warning!"
The irony in Friedhelm's mission was the warrant for the siege. Of all the things he could pin on the Iris Company, it was their possession of illegal substances. The Grandmaster could only hope that Sylvia could see the situation she is in. Should she defy his orders here and now, she would not only make an enemy of him, but of Haven as well. The vanguard of shielded troopers continued to march into the clinic slowly, checking their corners in anticipation of a counter-assault.
Episode IIB
Despite their reunion, Hershey's actions have been met with various reactions - most of which were lukewarm, while others frustrated with her. Hershey made her stand and is hopeful to follow through with her plan to retrain the Daemon Lord - with or without the Harbingers' help. To this end, the Harbingers must now voice their concern on the matter. On the precipice of their accomplishments thus far, will Ra'el truly give in to the call? Or turn a deaf ear to the dreamweaver's plans?Meanwhile, the Hero had their reunion with an old friend, before letting them in on the Nova Heights case. Before the trio could press on with their works, Preston's clinic was besieged by the Black Watch and their contingents of squarebacks and law enforcers. Consequential of Sylvia's decision, and not unpredictable, it is as the hero had mentioned earlier, she was now a criminal. Stones unturned and mysteries unsolved, there was only one truth to be made.
Location: Haven
IRIS Objective: Survive the Black Watch's pursuit
HARB Objective: Improve current living standards
"A truth may be far-reached, but you must first reach far for it."
- The Fallen Eagle, Luca di Maroni (750 AC)
Malphaestus
Worthlessplebian
Zariel
Doctor Nope
Midrick
Remembrance
Nessi
Celestial Speck
Huntertabbysandshark3
ElenaIsCool
Soviet Panda
IRIS Objective: Survive the Black Watch's pursuit
HARB Objective: Improve current living standards
"A truth may be far-reached, but you must first reach far for it."
- The Fallen Eagle, Luca di Maroni (750 AC)
Malphaestus
Worthlessplebian
Zariel
Doctor Nope
Midrick
Remembrance
Nessi
Celestial Speck
Huntertabbysandshark3
ElenaIsCool
Soviet Panda
Pilgrim59
Certified Butterbar 🧈
- One on One
- Group
Sewers, Scene 1
Sylvia
Sewers, Central District
Laure
Sewers, Central District
Larry
Worthlessplebian
Doctor Nope
Written With:
Malphaestus
As it’s destruction rampaged unmolested throughout the tunnels deep-down, little seemed to have effect. Only through the combined coordination of the entirety of the Companions did things seem to sway their way, as the beast’s left arm turned from stump to nothing, prompting a perfect avenue for Eryn’s calculating tendril strikes to pluck the exposed flesh of the beast’s interior like one plucks feathers from a bird, thanks in large part to Ódhran’s omnipresent distractions, proving a perfect avenue to absorb most of the Vulture’s destruction without much consequence. Even so, whilst the destructive beam managed to edge itself closer towards the combat-medic, they proved themselves most capable of avoiding the Gospeller’s apocalyptic beam; digging into the walls of the sewers like a sharply edged blade cleaves through flesh. The strange blood spewing out from within, not unlike a fountain, fighting against Eryn’s brutality with its immense regenerative properties. To his benefit however, it would appear that his heightened state of being proved most useful, for as he targeted the most essential internals, he was out-pacing the beast’s regeneration. Laure and Sylvia, in their preceding attack, had managed to expose even more of the beast for Eryn to entertain his sadism, the back of the creature blown open with immensity, and the right arm now torn, and ablaze. Even so, it remained unperturbed, it’s function limited by its physical condition, though it’s function functioning all the same; it had been pure coincidence that the Companions’ attacks had managed to bridge the gap between the Beast’s non-existence, and existence: still all for naught.
As all the companions darted about the sewers, finally beginning to show signs of on-coming collapse, the Beast, in its absurdity, remained staunch, not even flinching or giving way to its attackers. The magic ceased, and a bellowing steam emerged from its every orifice, perhaps some manner of aetheric overload? As Eryn continued to pluck flesh and organ from within, glimpses of mechanisms turning, and aether spilling gave way, the creature now clearly the product of some strange magi-technology. The aether latched onto anything in its path, turning rubble into ember, and the air into rain, the chaotic energies contained within clearly the only weakness the beast entertained as its power controlled and utilized it to its benefit.
As Preston darted about the environment, no doubt surveying the Beast for its weakness, his keen insight and quick wit would prove themselves most useful. He had correctly assumed the majority of the underlying functions involved within this abomination: embedded was a grozite reactor: the holy grail of conventional technological understanding; an impossible creation whose function made mockery of the laws of convention and pre-existing research paradigms. Perhaps for the best, if a beast such as this was needed for its usage, then its usage was not needed by morality. Even so, it stood proud, surrounded by heroes and warriors whose fame equalled the Empress’ in volume, and whose popularity earned them great favours ever since the on-set of peace, the peace which had now shattered.
Its existence was a war upon the empire, no doubt. No patriotic imperial could possibly shepherd it’s construction; how could they when it went against all understanding? Clearly it was the herald of the return of the Harbingers. The return of evil to be slain, though if the sewers were to be believed, it had never left. The beast turned slowly, it’s eyes shadowing Preston’s heightened movements, it’s back now exposed to the Heroine and her loyal aide; the perfect opportunity to strike; with Eryn and Ódhran doing their share, all onus for finality was squarely placed upon the duo, as the Vulture found itself too occupied with the trio. It’s remaining arm aflame, waved around as it blocked every other intermittent metallic tendril, limited in its actions by the accumulating structural damage the party had begun to deliver. Limited little by conventional mortals’ need for some semblance of internal structure, bone and muscle, the beast’s strange blood seemed to control the creature not unlike how wire does a marionette: the Vulture instead faced with difficulty due to the immense amount of excess that flowed out from within due to its gaping injuries.
The hero mustered her strength, reeling in from her recent impulsive course of actions. She finally adhered to Laure's words and took a gander at their current disposition with a now-alleviated mind. Despite having given her youth to the war, she could not make sense of the Vulture's exposed organs. While she conditioned herself to believe that this was the work of the Harbingers, the Vulture's case posed a far more sinister ordeal. By Sylvia's rally, she managed to shift their formation accordingly - keen on one decisive blow. Her Solomon steadied, as she leapt forth again in concurrent movement to Laure's. Sylvia headed straight for the Vulture, alongside her trusted vice-commander. This was their moment to seize the day.
The Dovean paired her pacing with Sylvia's, where they were outside of the Vulture's presumed peripheral vision. Raising her leg back and her shoulders forward, she pulled all of her strength for an akimbo smash with her Able and Baker. Sylvia, on the other hand, had her Solomon Edge in tow for a charged lunge. With a confident heart, Laure gave it her all for the final attack, while Sylvia would follow up with a piercing strike. It was the perfect execution of combined might between them. Laure's strength was further augmented by her resolute faith in Sylvia. Her Able and Baker closed in, primed to pommel the Vulture's flank into oblivion.
Their accumulated power no doubt all-encompassing in devastation, it was not allowed to fester. As Laure was about to impact the exposed gore of the beast, it’s torso twisted with force enough to rip it off of its lower body: now facing a no doubt perturbed duet, the Vulture’s arm, in its momentum, delivered its own hammer as it impacted squarely upon Laure’s waist, deforming her flesh as she went flying against the slowly collapsing cobble of the Underground. Blood now flowing from its seperated body, it congealed around its now ‘odd’ anatomy, reforming and molding itself into place to better fit the circumstances.
Sylvia, in her determination, and immense trust in Laure, was too far gone in her own attack, though her choice of action no longer aligned with the situation. Her ideally piercing blow found itself landing squarely upon the Vulture’s heavily reinforced chest, the one place still remaining upon it’s upper body which remained impervious due to its strange metallurgy. Instead now faced with the all-consuming eyes of its hateful gaze.
The blaring impact upon the Vulture’s body began to dull, as the Solomon Edge’s heavy thrust and vibration were nullified by the reticent void. Her surroundings became absent of activity. Everything had seemingly froze for the hero, as her crimson eyes relinquished any claims of a preconceived achievement. Instead, her strength waned, as she could see the vivid sparks of her lance’s edge striking against the Vulture’s ory flesh. From the corner of her eyes, her friend was no longer beside her. In their stead, only remnants of a vacant shockwave - a retaliatory gift of their foe. Sylvia clenched her teeth with a scornful pair of berserk eyes, as she turned herself with speed and spun back for a rebound in the form of a smashing strike. Borrowing the forceful impact to break their engagement briefly, Sylvia slid backwards. Her hands trembled, unsteady in her strength as she was in her mind. Her Solomon dissipated, as she paced herself towards the rubbles with haste. Clawing her way through the pile of damp bricks and grimy metals, Sylvia sullied the ground with her already-bloodied hands. Before long, a familiar visage found her, yet her hands continued to dig. A pair of fading emeralds.
“Sylvia...” a feeble voice called out.
Sylvia attempted to pull Laure from her heavy blanket of cinderblocks, but her hand was met by that of Laure’s. Their joint hands maneuvered towards Laure’s sides. Sylvia’s eyes homed in on the runny sensation upon her gloves. She felt its warm flow pouring incessantly, as Laure’s attire began to seep red. Sylvia’s hand administered some pressure upon the trickling point, but Laure’s countenance only grew dimmer by the fleeting moment. Laure’s spine was beaten to a pulp, while her sides were torn open - what was left of her pelvis anyways. Sylvia felt her heart ejecting from herself. Laure’s hand rose, brushing Sylvia’s cheek with purpose. The hero’s face was now tattooed with a red tone not of her own flesh. Laure's breath was filled with intermittent gurgling of her own blood, as she desperately gasped for air. An unnerving display of tamed despair.
“L-Laure… No… stay with me… Laure! Don't do this, please… I beg you… Don't… Please!” Sylvia’s quiet voice spiked at the end, as Laure’s hand fell from the hero’s face and onto their chest.
Ruby optics upon jaded emerald. Laure, despite their drowsy eyes and immobile state, had chosen to smile. Blood tainted their lovely Daffodil neckline. She gave Sylvia an acknowledging glance, as the dribbling waterways lulled her. Despite Sylvia’s inaudible protest, Able and Baker shattered. At last, the Dovean’s hand fell onto the cold hard ground. Angels absent, deities neglect, and blessings nowhere to be found. Sylvia was on her knees, petrified and consumed by the discomforting silence. She found herself staring at a pair of bleached greens - robbed of their once glorious bloom and shine. Sylvia’s forehead met her friend’s, as rogue tears flowed against her will. The hero held tightly onto Laure’s hand, struggling to conform to the cold reality. So much so that she could not utter any withheld words. Her cries became silent - a solitary lament.
Her pain would find an answer in the ensuing actions of her compatriots, now diminished. The moments had been so rapid, that the reality of the situation had not had enough time to reach the three others, as they fought tooth and nail against the Vulture. However, in a bizarre twist of fate, what would deliver Laure unto the livingless, would spell the same fate for her deliverer. The Gospeller, with its torso twisted out of place to murder Laure, now proved an open site for Preston’s adrenaline fueled escapades. So consumed in the absurdity of his own actions, the arachnid was too rapid to realize the plight of Laure and Sylvia, but perhaps this would be for the best. Undisturbed he twirled about the tunnels, the blessings of Laure lingering just long enough for his tumbling to lead unto salvation.
As he threw his limb with a fury most fervent, and righteousness personified, the defiance of the entire Companions took shape and form, guiding the limb firmly against the back of the devilish beast opposing them. It penetrated deep, the gorey flesh proving itself no opponent to this personification of their unified will. With Laure’s spirit watching over it, the spear pierced the beast’s internal reactor, and unleashed from within it an immense storm of energies which spewed in every direction as the Arachnid found himself firmly planted against the floor.
Bolts blitzed around the tunnel as they connected and pulverized anything they came into contact with, the destruction atomizing the Vulture in its unbridled potency from within. The walls evaporated and the oxygen vanished as the room entered vacuum; the pressure drawing everything into the now destroyed core of the beast as a shockwave soon latched out from this aetheric nucleus; the Vulture’s death accompanied by its own parting words: “BEHOLD: A GLIMMER OF TRUTH!” It’s roar seemingly accelerated its own destruction as its death took form, its last gospel lingering amidst the dampness as the void drew every last remnant of its existence into the ensuing chaos.
Collapse began, and it ended shortly after, a vacuous implosion allowed the shine of the sky to enter the ‘Neathworld as the roof fell and the ground rumbled.
As all the companions darted about the sewers, finally beginning to show signs of on-coming collapse, the Beast, in its absurdity, remained staunch, not even flinching or giving way to its attackers. The magic ceased, and a bellowing steam emerged from its every orifice, perhaps some manner of aetheric overload? As Eryn continued to pluck flesh and organ from within, glimpses of mechanisms turning, and aether spilling gave way, the creature now clearly the product of some strange magi-technology. The aether latched onto anything in its path, turning rubble into ember, and the air into rain, the chaotic energies contained within clearly the only weakness the beast entertained as its power controlled and utilized it to its benefit.
As Preston darted about the environment, no doubt surveying the Beast for its weakness, his keen insight and quick wit would prove themselves most useful. He had correctly assumed the majority of the underlying functions involved within this abomination: embedded was a grozite reactor: the holy grail of conventional technological understanding; an impossible creation whose function made mockery of the laws of convention and pre-existing research paradigms. Perhaps for the best, if a beast such as this was needed for its usage, then its usage was not needed by morality. Even so, it stood proud, surrounded by heroes and warriors whose fame equalled the Empress’ in volume, and whose popularity earned them great favours ever since the on-set of peace, the peace which had now shattered.
Its existence was a war upon the empire, no doubt. No patriotic imperial could possibly shepherd it’s construction; how could they when it went against all understanding? Clearly it was the herald of the return of the Harbingers. The return of evil to be slain, though if the sewers were to be believed, it had never left. The beast turned slowly, it’s eyes shadowing Preston’s heightened movements, it’s back now exposed to the Heroine and her loyal aide; the perfect opportunity to strike; with Eryn and Ódhran doing their share, all onus for finality was squarely placed upon the duo, as the Vulture found itself too occupied with the trio. It’s remaining arm aflame, waved around as it blocked every other intermittent metallic tendril, limited in its actions by the accumulating structural damage the party had begun to deliver. Limited little by conventional mortals’ need for some semblance of internal structure, bone and muscle, the beast’s strange blood seemed to control the creature not unlike how wire does a marionette: the Vulture instead faced with difficulty due to the immense amount of excess that flowed out from within due to its gaping injuries.
The hero mustered her strength, reeling in from her recent impulsive course of actions. She finally adhered to Laure's words and took a gander at their current disposition with a now-alleviated mind. Despite having given her youth to the war, she could not make sense of the Vulture's exposed organs. While she conditioned herself to believe that this was the work of the Harbingers, the Vulture's case posed a far more sinister ordeal. By Sylvia's rally, she managed to shift their formation accordingly - keen on one decisive blow. Her Solomon steadied, as she leapt forth again in concurrent movement to Laure's. Sylvia headed straight for the Vulture, alongside her trusted vice-commander. This was their moment to seize the day.
The Dovean paired her pacing with Sylvia's, where they were outside of the Vulture's presumed peripheral vision. Raising her leg back and her shoulders forward, she pulled all of her strength for an akimbo smash with her Able and Baker. Sylvia, on the other hand, had her Solomon Edge in tow for a charged lunge. With a confident heart, Laure gave it her all for the final attack, while Sylvia would follow up with a piercing strike. It was the perfect execution of combined might between them. Laure's strength was further augmented by her resolute faith in Sylvia. Her Able and Baker closed in, primed to pommel the Vulture's flank into oblivion.
Their accumulated power no doubt all-encompassing in devastation, it was not allowed to fester. As Laure was about to impact the exposed gore of the beast, it’s torso twisted with force enough to rip it off of its lower body: now facing a no doubt perturbed duet, the Vulture’s arm, in its momentum, delivered its own hammer as it impacted squarely upon Laure’s waist, deforming her flesh as she went flying against the slowly collapsing cobble of the Underground. Blood now flowing from its seperated body, it congealed around its now ‘odd’ anatomy, reforming and molding itself into place to better fit the circumstances.
Sylvia, in her determination, and immense trust in Laure, was too far gone in her own attack, though her choice of action no longer aligned with the situation. Her ideally piercing blow found itself landing squarely upon the Vulture’s heavily reinforced chest, the one place still remaining upon it’s upper body which remained impervious due to its strange metallurgy. Instead now faced with the all-consuming eyes of its hateful gaze.
The blaring impact upon the Vulture’s body began to dull, as the Solomon Edge’s heavy thrust and vibration were nullified by the reticent void. Her surroundings became absent of activity. Everything had seemingly froze for the hero, as her crimson eyes relinquished any claims of a preconceived achievement. Instead, her strength waned, as she could see the vivid sparks of her lance’s edge striking against the Vulture’s ory flesh. From the corner of her eyes, her friend was no longer beside her. In their stead, only remnants of a vacant shockwave - a retaliatory gift of their foe. Sylvia clenched her teeth with a scornful pair of berserk eyes, as she turned herself with speed and spun back for a rebound in the form of a smashing strike. Borrowing the forceful impact to break their engagement briefly, Sylvia slid backwards. Her hands trembled, unsteady in her strength as she was in her mind. Her Solomon dissipated, as she paced herself towards the rubbles with haste. Clawing her way through the pile of damp bricks and grimy metals, Sylvia sullied the ground with her already-bloodied hands. Before long, a familiar visage found her, yet her hands continued to dig. A pair of fading emeralds.
“Sylvia...” a feeble voice called out.
Sylvia attempted to pull Laure from her heavy blanket of cinderblocks, but her hand was met by that of Laure’s. Their joint hands maneuvered towards Laure’s sides. Sylvia’s eyes homed in on the runny sensation upon her gloves. She felt its warm flow pouring incessantly, as Laure’s attire began to seep red. Sylvia’s hand administered some pressure upon the trickling point, but Laure’s countenance only grew dimmer by the fleeting moment. Laure’s spine was beaten to a pulp, while her sides were torn open - what was left of her pelvis anyways. Sylvia felt her heart ejecting from herself. Laure’s hand rose, brushing Sylvia’s cheek with purpose. The hero’s face was now tattooed with a red tone not of her own flesh. Laure's breath was filled with intermittent gurgling of her own blood, as she desperately gasped for air. An unnerving display of tamed despair.
“L-Laure… No… stay with me… Laure! Don't do this, please… I beg you… Don't… Please!” Sylvia’s quiet voice spiked at the end, as Laure’s hand fell from the hero’s face and onto their chest.
Ruby optics upon jaded emerald. Laure, despite their drowsy eyes and immobile state, had chosen to smile. Blood tainted their lovely Daffodil neckline. She gave Sylvia an acknowledging glance, as the dribbling waterways lulled her. Despite Sylvia’s inaudible protest, Able and Baker shattered. At last, the Dovean’s hand fell onto the cold hard ground. Angels absent, deities neglect, and blessings nowhere to be found. Sylvia was on her knees, petrified and consumed by the discomforting silence. She found herself staring at a pair of bleached greens - robbed of their once glorious bloom and shine. Sylvia’s forehead met her friend’s, as rogue tears flowed against her will. The hero held tightly onto Laure’s hand, struggling to conform to the cold reality. So much so that she could not utter any withheld words. Her cries became silent - a solitary lament.
Her pain would find an answer in the ensuing actions of her compatriots, now diminished. The moments had been so rapid, that the reality of the situation had not had enough time to reach the three others, as they fought tooth and nail against the Vulture. However, in a bizarre twist of fate, what would deliver Laure unto the livingless, would spell the same fate for her deliverer. The Gospeller, with its torso twisted out of place to murder Laure, now proved an open site for Preston’s adrenaline fueled escapades. So consumed in the absurdity of his own actions, the arachnid was too rapid to realize the plight of Laure and Sylvia, but perhaps this would be for the best. Undisturbed he twirled about the tunnels, the blessings of Laure lingering just long enough for his tumbling to lead unto salvation.
As he threw his limb with a fury most fervent, and righteousness personified, the defiance of the entire Companions took shape and form, guiding the limb firmly against the back of the devilish beast opposing them. It penetrated deep, the gorey flesh proving itself no opponent to this personification of their unified will. With Laure’s spirit watching over it, the spear pierced the beast’s internal reactor, and unleashed from within it an immense storm of energies which spewed in every direction as the Arachnid found himself firmly planted against the floor.
Bolts blitzed around the tunnel as they connected and pulverized anything they came into contact with, the destruction atomizing the Vulture in its unbridled potency from within. The walls evaporated and the oxygen vanished as the room entered vacuum; the pressure drawing everything into the now destroyed core of the beast as a shockwave soon latched out from this aetheric nucleus; the Vulture’s death accompanied by its own parting words: “BEHOLD: A GLIMMER OF TRUTH!” It’s roar seemingly accelerated its own destruction as its death took form, its last gospel lingering amidst the dampness as the void drew every last remnant of its existence into the ensuing chaos.
Collapse began, and it ended shortly after, a vacuous implosion allowed the shine of the sky to enter the ‘Neathworld as the roof fell and the ground rumbled.
