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Log: An Orphanage Raid Goes Bloody

Page history last edited by Tsangun 14 years, 12 months ago

SETTING: The Barony of a Dozen Blades

Plot Arc: A War of Steel and Roses


The Barony of a Dozen Blades is a hilly region spotted with no few mountains, and the moon hangs pierced through the center by one great peak in the distance. The sky is cloudless and the stars shine bright, in the distance on hillsides the fires of the industrious cities of the Barony can be seen. In one of the outlying villages, orphans are sent to be raised as miners and craftsmen in a large, severe stone building. This village sprung up on one of the hillsides around a coal mine, one of the suppliers of a Baron's main city nearby, contributing to the livelihood of the kingdom. The village has a small stone wall, but the gate is left open this evening, as a caravan bringing food and supplies into the village has just arrived. Guards bearing torches pace the wall, peering out over the caravan with spears held loosely in hand. It is plain that they expect very little to happen out of the ordinary, as the Barony in the past has been a very quiet place, in part owing to its military reputation and its actions to act as mercenaries for other neighboring countries to provide military might in exchange for food and coin.


Not all is as it seems this night, however. Over the gate, a pair of dark messengers hiss through the darkness, slim shafts of wood that bury themselves in the throats of the two guards who stand over the gate. A dark figure lands in between them moments later, his black, metallic wings stretching from his back and glistening in the light of the two torches as they fall from the hands of the guards. He turns slightly to the side, the cloak he wears rustling about him from the force of the sudden landing (which is nonetheless as quiet as a whisper). One hand points out to the darkness beyond the opened gate, and it beckons.


Seated up against one of the buildings inside the village is a figure dressed in tattered robes, bundled up tight, cautioned against the nightly chill of these foothills. The faint glow of the far off torches gently kissed the man's form as he rested there, head down, his walking stick set behind him against the wall. But, as the guards dropped and their essences were released into Creation, there was a slight stir from the figure. The robed hood slowly raised, that black-sashed gaze of a blind man paying heed to the night beyond.


Sitting in the caravan with a hood over his face, a small figure stirs from his place. He sits up and moves into a dark alley way, a small group of figures following with large bags. As he moves towards through the darkness, he continues to scan for any sign of guards. He gets to the orphanage, and waits in the alley for the signal to go on.


Ragara Garel stands in the doorway of the squat building being used as a dormatory for the younger inhabitants of the small town, silks pulled over his armor to appear less threatening, nevermind the oversized sword hanging over his shoulder. He appears to be arguing with the matron about something reguarding his suitablility as an adoptor, something about the children being placed in obvious danger should she let a child go with him. Behind him a tall severe woman stands, slumping as if she is unhappy to be here, but tries to maintain an aura of watchfulness out into the darkness.


The noble leading the caravan gives a wide and unnatural smile. He whispers something in an unknown tongue to the cloaked men that are the "guard" of the caravan. He slowly walks through the gate with the smile on his face growing. He does not act but seems to be waiting for something. The cloaked men slowly push the caravan foward. The sound of slowly turing wheels whispers in the wind.


Reaching down to the corpse at his side, the black-winged figure rips the arrow out of his throat, still sticky and red from blood. The arrow is effortlessly brought up to the power bow that Wings of Strife wields, nocked back, and fired. The shot picks off a guard nearly a hundred feet away from him, slamming through his helmet and skull and knocking him cleanly over and off the ramparts to his side. The other arrow is recycled as well, streaking over the center of the town and picking off a second guard. No further guards remain nearby on top of the wall, and a third arrow is withdrawn from the quiver that the archer wears, and it is fired down into the city. It arcs upwards, and then slowly dips down, skimming over a rooftop just a few inches from the shingles before it drops into an alleyway and slams, quivering, into a door frame just a few paces ahead of the waiting team of bag-carrying figures.


Looking over the caravan for just a few moments, the marksman's wings flex for just a moment and then he is aloft over the city, moving so fast he is only a shadow. He lands atop the large clock tower in the village square, standing easily upon the pinnacle just as the clockworks churn and the massive bell begins to toll eleven o'clock. An arrow is nocked, and his form is outlined by the moonlight. A look is fixed upon the caravan. Wait for it...


"Inferno, Daila, muster the remaining guard," whispered that voice under the robes. Two figures, as if chameleons against that stone wall, came to life and descended into the shadows, only a moment's flicker against the greater activity. Amatin slowly stood, taking that bulky walking stick and making his way slowly down the alleyway behind him, feeling the essence of the Golden Janissary form and its shield surge through him. Darkness was here, and he could understand it around him. Pushing another beggar to the side, he turned the corner-...


And boom. There, in front of the hooded figure in the alleyway, in his tattered robes and walking stick, was that blindfolded man, soulsteel scars ripped across his face. Amatin stopped, feeling that familiar essence. "You," he greeted.


The hooded figure just stares with his glowing orange eyes at the monk and says, "What- where- Who are you?!?" Looking at the arrow in the door, he motions to the figures, "Go. I will deal with this." The figures nod and begin to go back into the alley. "What do you want, persistent monk? Here to capture since you failed to reclaim me from the Anathema last time?"


The caravan continous its slow approach towards the center of town. The noble stands in front of the wagons with his large smile. He again whispers something to the robed men. The wagon begins to quicken its pace but still only the sounds of turning wheels are heard.


Looking dejected and not the smallest bit angry Garel turns from the entrance to the dormatory. Muttering 'I could take them if I wanted', the tall woman pats him on the shoulder, "I know you could boss, but we need find some kind of inn for the night, we've been out a lot longer than I like. And there's something in the air I don't like."

"Fine Iron, fine." And they both move from the building in search of some inn where he can drink away his troubles.


The marksman stands almost statuesque on top of the clocktower as it tolls out eleven times, each crash of the bell shaking the air and sending trembles softly through the nearby stone. The arrow is slowly pulled back, and he watches the caravan approach far below him. The moonlight plays off of the red and black metal of his mask, causing it to seem as if bloody tear drops are falling from the corners of the skeletal mask's face and down its gaunt cheeks. His rose-red eyes slowly begin to turn gold and purple as deathly essence begins to channel into them, putting the town into a much more striking contrast as he focuses on the progress of the team moving towards the orphanage, who are conspicuously absent from their pre-planned route. His wings stretch, blotting out some of the moon behind him, as the final toll rings through the air, and then he steps from the clock tower. In free fall for only a moment, Wings of Strife hovers and then tears into motion, a fleeting shadow from a guttering torch moving slower than he as he flies over the tops of the wagons of the caravan, a cold wind howling in his wake.


He lands on a rooftop over the agreed meeting point, where his arrow still lies embedded in in a nearby doorway, and he looks down upon the occupants of the alleyway, silent for the moment.


A few steps were taken in the direction of the hooded figure, holy light embers gently glowing across his form as it slowly burned away those tattered robes, the wood veneer of the supposed walking stick burning away to reveal that dire pike, the Bane of Creation's Darkest Shadows, its salt crystal spike glowing gently in the night. "I'm no monk," Amatin replied as he continued to close the distance between himself and the figure. "Touch me with your necromancy, dark creature, and I will skin you and undo your very being while you scream for mercy and repetance. You know this weapon and my capabilities well. You're irrelevant to me at the moment. You know why I'm here, and you will tell me where my objective is so I don't have to waste time feeling for it myself." The stare of that black sash was almost unnerving. And then, he looked up, directly at the marksman, a smile drawing across his face. "Well," he said in a low voice, as the fury of a thousand infernos began to build within him.


The puppet master scowls, hating this annoying threat before him. "You are searching for the one whom crippled you so?" Kurai suddenly smiles and shrugs, "Well, I don't know where he is right now. If you are desperate to find him though, I will make a deal with you. Let me go and don't interfere with me, and I shall give you a name."


The wheels of the caravan make a sudden stop in fron of the orphanage. A quite chackle comes from the nobles mouth though his mouth doesn't move. He then beings to walk into the coutyard and the carvan follows. No sound comes from the robed men as they walk only complete silence.


Pausing at the strange laughter, Iron Midnight stops Garel with a hand on his shoulder and calls to the caravan, "You alright sir? Whats a delivery coming in so late at night for?" Garel sighs folds his arms and rolls his eyes, but waits patiently for Iron to get this out of her system. Why does she have to be so Dragon's-damned friendly all the time?


"Well met." The voice that issues from behind the mask is clear and cold, much like the moon that evening. The temperature around him begins to drop by several degrees very rapidly, and a cold wind sweeps through the entire town. From the forehead of the mask, tears of blood begin to roll down, and from the eyes. They drip downwards, splattering on the ground in the alleyway between Kurai and the blind-folded Dragon. A frost begins to form on the shingles that the Abyssal stands upon as the temperature continues to drop. The gold-purple eyes focus upon the blind-folded man, even as the chill that surrounds him snuffs out several candles and torches in the surrounding streets and homes. He takes Kurai's words into consideration, and his next statement is delivered with the faint hint of a smirk. "I see you have met my brother in arms."


"He is off having tea, I'm afraid he'll not be along to play with you. I am his replacement." The bow rises up, and blood drips from the point of the arrow as purple-black Essence begins to form around the masked archer, twists of power ripping at the very fabric of Creation around him. More and more begins to gather, and then there is a loud howling sound, almost sucking, as Underworld Essence opens up in a hole open his forehead, a screaming eye of Oblivion that peers down at the Dragon-Blooded. More essence explodes until Carried on Wings of Strife and Torment is veritably surrounded by a corona of ghastly purple, black, and red Essence. Then there is a moment of hush as all of the Essence flickers out of being for just a moment, and then wraps itself in a very visible halo around the nocked arrow, "Now, then." The Abyssal remarks cordially. "Good bye." The arrow tears from the bow, hissing downwards through the evening air towards the monk and leaving a path of warped Creation in its wake, the very fabric of reality seeming twisted by its passing, and it is accompanied by a second.


The noble turns and smiles to the man. "I am fine its just the cold weather my freind." The noble begins to rub his body for gain warmth. "We ran into some trouble o the way here. Some of my men this on this job are quite stiff. They had to do everything by the book so it took us longer." The noble continous to walk forward. "I hear the orpans are simply dying to get the carvan supplies." 


"As you can perhaps understand now, lying to me would be...fatal, when I can find you," Amatin replied, his attention focused almost entirely on that marksman perched above him. His left hand came up, and waved up to the Abyssal. "Yes, a name, and I guarantee that I won't personally destroy another month's work for you, nor you. Hello, up there! You've been causing quite a ruckus. I think we need to talk." His golden anima began to gently glow around him, slowly starting to illuminate the surrounding walls of the alleyway. "Hurry up, mortal, I have work to do and my pike would love to render your entrails across the surrounding countryside should you linger in my presence too long."


And as Amatin would again focus upon Wings of Strife, the essence of the very world changed around him. As that Void-touched arrow screamed for him, his golden anima flared and burst outwards, the alleyway igniting into holy flames. The pike swept upwards as Amatin took to the air, his foot pushing off against an awning. The Wyld Hunter spun through the air, the salt crystal striking against the arrow. A deep hum began to rush out through the town, and all those dead would feel the chill as their very essences are plucked at like strings. A second push, a third, and in instants, Amatin was face to face with the Wings of Strife. "Leaving so soon?" he asked, the butt of that pike coming in with a fiery halo towards that mask, aiming to send the Abyssal screaming down into the alleyway at breakneck speed.


Kurai dashes past the blind man, and as he does, he says, "Go and seek The Choices Born in Darkness. Assuming you /survive/, which I doubt." He dashes out from the alley and dives under the nearby caravan. As he does, the bottom of the one wagon opens and he climbs inside.


Garel immediately pulls his sword into his hands as the iconic warriors in the sky. To the man in the caravan he says, "You and your men should head back to the gate and get under cover, something is happening and I doubt you would want to be in the middle of it." to himself he simply mutters "Why are they flying? Why can't they be down where I can hit them?"


The pike smashes into the mask for just a moment, striking him squarely in the forehead. A crack runs through the top of the mask around the hole that leads into Oblivion. Golden and black essences crash for just a moment and lightning snaps outward in several arcs, lightning both black and white as the conflicting essences repel each other with a great vigor. Wings of Strife is knocked backwards and crashes through the top of the curved roof, twisting out over the street for just a moment. As he does, he spins another arrow out of one of the four quivers he wears that are brimming with ammunition, and smoothly twists his body into a vault to land on a roof across the street. "Quaint! Do they teach that in your schools now?" He shouts towards the blind-folded man. "Here's a trick for you." The arrow nocked into the bow unleashes and howls forward, and as it arcs forward it multiples into five seperate arrows, four ghostly duplicates that seem to resonate with the pulse of Amatin's heartsblood, seeking the monk's life out to bury themselves in his flesh. His legs coil beneath him and he flings himself upwards, the force of the jump propelled by a downward stroke of his wings blowing in the roof below him, which while sturdy, was not made to withstand the force of a leaping Exalt. He soars upwards and forwards, his back to the moon and his eyes taking a brief moment to survey the entire town below him, watching his operation.


The noble nods to the man but he continous to the orphanage. "I think it is already to late to turn back from here. We are already in the middle of the town and the fight is closer to the entrance were we came." In the air a whisper reachs the men the cloaks. "We shall hide in the orphanage for saftey at the moment." The noble and his robed men begin to run to the orphanage with great speed.


The Dynast moved with the ferocity and chaos of a wildfire, the first arrow rocking past his form. Pike effortlessly came down past the second, twirling around the third and forth. The last horrible duplicate seemed as if it were to go home into Amatin's heart - but at the last second, the gauntletted second hand came up, the beautiful machination of jade plucking the arrow from the air without a second thought, crushing it. Leaping from the roof in an explosion of timber, stone, and holy fire, Amatin was instants too late to catch the ascending Wings of Strife. So, as Amatin landed, his attention dropped to the caravan below, where he knew that hooded man reside. Focus again settled on Wings of Strife, and the gears fell into place. "INFERNO, DAILA, STRIKE THE CARAVAN!" boomed that voice across the wind. Down on the streets, a fire aspected Immaculate Monk and a Wood Aspect Dynast came from the shadows towards the caravan, bearing the banners of the Wyld Hunt, ten mortal guards that had been roused in tow. To Amatin, the caravan was now forgotten, in the hands of his brothers while he faced the threat hovering in the sky above.


Chuckling, Kurai waits for Morag's trick to take place as he sits in the wagon. Meanwhile, the figures he was with before move through another alley and into the orphanage. He sinks back under the wagon through the trap door, having retrieved his small pack from there.


"I said go back to the gate. The guard will likely be mobilizing and will offer more protection than that orphanage will." He pulls the silks from his chest to reveal jade armor with the sigel of House Ragara. "Do as I say," he growls. But as the Hunt burts from the shadows his face breaks in a grimace of anger. Surging foreward to bring his Grand Daiklave down over the center of the largest wagon. Iron seems slightly confused by this move and simply moves behind her boss to guard his back.


The noble turns around when he hears the monks shout. He grinds his teeth in fustration of being to so close. "At least I have prepared for such a thing. Again the noble speaks in the tongue of the dead this time loud enough for all to hear. All the wagons of the caraven open up to form a large circle that surronds many. In the middle of the circle stands a tall skeletonal figure. Very little clothing cover it. Anyone looking it its eyes can see the unending laybrith. Many who know of the dead know what type of monster this is, A nephwrack but this one stronger then the most. As the many guards enter the cirle they look back and not notice a barrier has appeared that stopps all that try to pass thought the barrair. The newhpwrack laughs at teh sight in front of it beings to slaughter of the guards


The shouting from the Wyld Hunter only serves to cause Wings to begin abjectly laughing, a horrendous sound much like dried snake skin rasping together mixed with a slight, bloody gargle. The laugher seems to be a bubbling well of power, as deep red Essence spills from the man's mouth and emerges through the mask for as long as the laughter continues. Essence runs like a deep red wine through the air surrounding the Abyssal's right arm, coating it entirely in a shimmering cacoon of what would appear to be blood, behaving like a liquid might, but it floats several inches above his arm, surrounding it entirely all the way to the wrist and up to the elbow. "You played your hand too soon, Hunter! Pay the consequences!" The layer of liquid seems to react as a second skin might as he adjusts his arm, moving with it.


Two arrows are withdrawn, effortlessly spun into the bow and nocked at the same time. He seems to hang in midair for just a moment before dropping very rapidly, like a falling star from Heaven. Essence howls into being around him, licking at the air and attempting to consume Creation itself, before he forces it to curl around the two arrows he holds. The liquid layer over his arm coats each of the arrows with its bloody red Essence, and then he fires. Each arrow hisses out towards one of the Wyld Hunters that are moving towards the wagons, flying with unerring and supernatural accuracy. Just before he hits the ground his wings open up and he begins to soar again, flying upwards once more.


No. Amatin took advantage of this moment, as Wings of Strife began to descend. Though the Wood Aspect was hit in the back and began to collapse, the fire Immaculate stood steady and gracefully escaped the Abyssal's arrow with the Bottomless Depths Defense, and continued forth for the nephwrack's circle where it was busy butchering guards. Meanwhile, Amatin had already taken to the air with a leap of faith, calling forth the Rotten Leaf Arrested at Wings of Strife's lowest moment, attempting to paralyze the Abyssal's wings just as Amatin would land in front of him. "Did I?" the Inquisitor asked as that holy anima sizzled against the dark, purple, Oblivion-ruined anima of the Anathema.


Kurai dashes into the orphanage, leaving the hunt and the guards to worry about the powerful undead they must now deal with. Inside, the figures begin to gather the children into large sacks, a full twelve puppets each of them with enormous strength.


Garel brings his sword crashing down on the wagon, cleaving it entirely in half. Wooden splinters and things that are definitely not supplies destined for an orphanage rain around him, he leaps into the circled wagons, intent on stopping the rampaging abomination. Roaring out a challenge to the undead monstrosity to draw it's attention from the beleagred guardsmen. Leaping into the air his sword bursts into a blazeing icon of fire as he brings it crashing over his head, intent on cleaving the monster in twain.


The Wyld Hunter's charm freezes the black soulsteel wings as the Abyssal flies, and Wings reflexively notices their stiffening and unresponsiveness to movement and puts a foot down. When his gold-wreathed opponent lands in front of him, Wings of Strife uses his skidding foot to kick himself up into the air and spin upwards into a somersault up and over Amatin's head, so as not to run into him entirely and lose his balance. As he twists through the air, shadows wrap about his form and extend down his arm, where another arrow has been loaded into his soulsteel powerbow. The black metal drinks up the moonlight, and the bowstring crafted of souls lost in the Labrynth for twenty years bound and trapped into fine pieces of string screams, a high pitched note, as the arrow is drawn back all of the way. The shot is fired downwards, practically point blank, into Amatin, crashing into his radiant aura. Wings doesn't spare him a second arrow, however, instead turning to fire another shot at the Fire-aspected Immaculate, seemingly unwilling to allow him to confront the Nephrack.


The noble looks around noticing that his plan has work at least for the time being. He turns around and runs to the orphanage looking to collect some of the childern for his master. He starts ordering the robed men around. Having them gather childern in sheets in order to carry more.


The nephwrack quickly brings a blackenend blade above him to block the in coming attack. Instead of the sound of ringing steel, the sound of crying souls are heard. The nephwrack is pushed back by the force of the blow. He charges at the Garel with dark engery flowing in the blade guiding its attacks closer to Garel vital organs. The nephwrack looks up every once and a while to keep track of the immaculates wishing no to fight against those who devoted there lives to destory creatures like himself.


Yet again the Immaculate, Hissing Inferno, used those precious motes to disintegrate the arrow, now turning to face and actively protect himself against the Anathema rather than the comparatively insignificant nephwrack. However, this was Amatin's fight, and the fellow hunter would not interfere. Meanwhile, Amatin had turned around to find an arrow coming straight at him - it lodged directly into his breastplate, and the hunter recoiled back just long enough for the whirling flames of the Golden Janissary Form to render it into ash before it had a chance to do any damage. Again striking forth with the fury of wildfire, Amatin's singing pike came forth, the hunter's fists on fire, for a stab at the Wings of Strife's thigh.


The puppets collect much of the children and Kurai begins setting up the packs of firedust from the pack he has. He looks to Morag and says, "Alright, We are gonna need to blow this scene when I finish. Let us get the rest of the children and get ready to do some damage before we leave."


Pushed onto the defencive, Garel blocks and parries blow after blow from the nephwrack as it's sword howls for his blood. Overextending himself in his defence, the screaming blade skims his unprotected arm, before the monster can take advantage of this opening, Garel springs away, leaving a glowing trail of fire behind him before coming to a rest on top of one of the remaining wagons. Breathing hard he calls to Iron Whirlwind, she merely nods and goes off at a sprint towards the orphanage as Garel once more charging the monster, his sword ablaze.


"You are right we must hurry this process up." says Morag. He yells to the zombies to hurry their pace. "There shouldn't be many left. He begins to lay down his own power.


The nephwrack continous to laugh as he see someone running towards the orphanage. Its attention was drawn away from Garel for too long as Garel connects with Nephwrack burning the bone of the creature. The monster quickly moves to Garels side to slide his sword right through the man.


The pike cuts a sure, glowing arc through the air, on course and seeming to be about to strike its target when Wings of Strife dissolves into a flurry of shadows in a very literal sense, outright disappearing. A few droplets of blood lie on the ground in his wake, until a howl can be heard as Oblivion's eye reopens four yards behind Amatin. Wings of Strife reappears, taking a few steps backwards as he raises up his bow again. He attempts a hop and a skip back both to adjust his angle and to try and flex his wings, which crack a little bit but otherwise do not move. "Oblivion consume you, Hunter! You are like the water diluting my blood-wine. I will give you much to worry about when we are done here." More twisting purple-black Essence comes into being, and green-black lightning crackles along the shaft of the arrow that the archer nocks.


Frustration is somewhat apparent in his voice at his inability to use his wings, but it seems to anger him more than anything else. And this anger is channeled down the shaft of the arrow, the point glowing a chill, pale blue as he fires again, directly at Amatin's head... and over his shoulder, hissing towards Ragara Garel as the Dragon-Blood engages the Nephwrack. Two more arrows are nocked to the bow and pulled back, the shafts spinning together in flight as they fly towards the blind Hunter before him.


"Fool. You still underestimate the power of the Dragons," Amatin said as he near-effortlessly worked his way around the arrows, the pike striking them down. One did glance just off his shoulder, drawing red blood into his robes, but it only served to harden the Dynast's face. His movement toward the Wings of Strife was eerily calm and fluid, as his fists began to burn furiously. What came next proved the horrible word that had spread across the Threshold of the Inquisitor, and the true prowess of the Wyld Hunt. The Dynast leapt into the air, springing to close the distance between himself and Wings of Strife with blinding speed. Pike held back, fists nearly as bright as the sun itself, Amatin struck forth with that pike for Wings's chest.


That was when time stopped. Or it felt like it, as the Heavens above opened and a light exploded outwards from Amatin, illuminating the town for tens of miles in the distance and imbuing the afterimage of the Inquisitor into the visions of those around. The strike was vicious, burning with a holy fire that proved this child of Dragons was no mockery of Sol Invictus's power. A shockwave of inferno ripped out from his form, tearing forth for the caravan, the nephwrack, and all other undead within the blast's small limits. When the dust cleared, there stood Amatin, skin and armor burning with the ferocity of the Golden Janissary, continuing his horrible, unstoppable approach toward Wings of Strife.


The blade cracks into the thick jade covering his torso and once again Garel catapults away from the Nephwrack, leaving scorched ground and a trail of fire behind him leaving the unholy arrow to smash relatively harmlessly against the cobblestones of the street. Clutching his side, his anima now flaring and setting the wagons to burning he screams incoherent curses at the towering monster. Calling to the immaculate outside the circle, he prepairs to leap back into combat with the monster, but is stopped cold by the golden glory of the Wyld Hunter. Iron Midnight, skidding to a halt at the edge of the ward merely stands awestruck as the afterimages flash across her vision.


Kurai looks to Morag and says, "And /THAT/ is our clue to break the hell out of here!" The puppets have gathered around and Kurai uses the last of his spells to severely injure the powerful Golden Janissary. Amatin's body goes negative and seems to shatter, giving the signal that they are all finished.


In the shadow of the wilderness, in the outskirts of where sane and good people live, something burbles up from the nameless wood. A ichor of blood and black bile, it melts along the floor like a puddle of vomit trickling down a the edge of a sick bed, eventually finding a comfortable rise and gathering there as if by some sort of grotesque magnetism. Collecting, it seethes. It sprouts bladders and veins, muscles, sinew. It grows... skin, pink. New, like a baby. Then eyes. Red. Beady. Intense. And finally; it has incarnated completely, a small rat with tussled hair, a dirty little thing. Vermin. This creature watches. This creature waits.


The nephwrack looks towards the Amatin with anger but begins to fly over to the orphanage with great speed. He those who are near him. The flames on his body are gone by cooled by his armor. He enter the orphange door as he does he brings out a dagger and swings it in mid air. As he does a ripple appears which the Nephwrack rips open. "It is time we leave. The nephwrack walks throught portal. Morag closely follows the ghost with his slaves and captives. "Its been fun" he says as he leaves


The pike slides all the way through Wings of Strife's chest and out his back, forcing the Abyssal to his knees. The power of the sun washes over him, holy flames burning his flesh and ripping away his mask, long lines of blood and two slashes appearing on either side of his face. When the light fades, Amatin would be looking down at the form of the Abyssal, apparently crumpled in defeat. For a long period, he doesn't move, red-black blood oozing out over the length of the pike. Then, a rattling breath shakes his body, and he exhales in a sigh. His body trembles and then literally explodes into an outpouring of Essence and shadows that swarms around Amatin's glow and recoagulates away from the man, the Abyssal marksman holding a bow. His wings flex now at last, a fist-sized hole punched cleanly all the way through his chest quite visibly, and the two arrows he has nocked to his bow say it all. Despite the incredible damage to his body, his voice is only slightly raspy, probably because a lung was struck. Even wreathed in golden flame as he is, scarring his skin and flesh, the lower half of his mask broken away, he smiles. His lips are partially seared away, leaving a combination of melted skin and gleaming white bone twisted into a facimile of a smile. "It's been fun, but I really have to get going. Until we meet again, I leave you with this parting gift." The arrows explode out of the bow and howl towards the hunter, before Wings of Strife takes a step to the side, leans down, and, a mix of burning gold and chilling purple Essence surrounding him, bends knee and launches himself upwards, his wings carrying him at an incredible speed towards the orphanage.


Amatin paused, as he felt the mirror build around his body, all of his colors going negative against the burning sky. And then, as his encasing shattered, the two arrows planted into his body, turning instantly to ash from the Golden Janissary form - one still drawing blood, however. The Inquisitor dropped to a knee, blood trailing out of his ears from the mirror shattering, deep cuts torn across his body. The Hissing Inferno was quick to join Amatin, moving to the protection of the Wyld Hunter as he struggled to a stand and watched the company move towards the orphanage. "Inferno. This village has been tainted by evil. Make sure Daila is able to walk, and then we burn this unholy place and destroy her wrecked citizens."


Striding foreward, his anima in full iconic glory, flames spinning around his body in a whirlwind of heat and light, Garel tears into the orphanage, knowing already he is unlikely to find anything, but raging against the wood and rock all the same.


Dashing into the portal, Kurai chuckles as one of his puppets stays behind to wait.


Landing in the doorway of the orphanage, Wings of Strife streaks past Garel into the closing portal, entering it just moments before the tear in Creation disappears and being completely consumed by it. 


Meanwhile, the Wyld Hunters have set to destroying the town. Buildings are set on fire, and those people running out or trying to escape are quickly pursued and slaughtered. Bodies begin to pile up and slowly burn.


= OOC = Mnemon Amatin says, "You all caused this. I have to kill them all now because you tainted them."


(Judge) Mnemon Amatin rolls Conviction: 6 8 <10>

Resulting in 3 successes


For a moment, the orphanage seems to implode. Suddenly, an extremely strong blast originates from the orphanage's center. Buildings nearby are torn to pieces as the shock wave from the tears stone and wood. The ground rumbles for miles and the smoke cloud is visible even in the night sky. Nearby guards are almost completely annihilated, the rubble crushing most of them. Many of the wyld Hunt are knocked off their feet and few cannot help but wonder what the hell just happened in the small time that the group arrived.


The rat shudders, as if overtaken by some strange fever. It seems distressed, coughing the screechy way that vermin do, eyes bugging. And then it vomits blood - a gout of it, enough to fill the tiny rodent stomach. Again, and again, and again. This pile of filth has the remnents of past meals in it, it would seem. Tiny organs, teeth. Hair. Do... rats eat, flesh? Other rats? And yet, even as the sickness continues... the shivering, tortured animal continues to belch forth far more than any right-thinking observerer could believe it contained within it... these bits of eaten flesh reveal themselves to be still... alive. They collect. They gather. And they begin to cover themselves with flesh, skin, teeth as well. Eventually, the first rat is matched by an exact twin. The two look at one another. And then, the newly created blasphemy springs forth, to draw closer, to watch the explosion and the aftermath yet more intensely. It seems to be looking for something, something that it cannot find.

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