Ladies and Gentlemen - the Teufel Jihad! Let the blood flow!

[Wyborn]

OoC: Ladies and gentlemen, this is bigger than my so-called War. This is the combined efforts of three people to resurrect the feeling in the battlefield that some people feel is now lacking - read through the next three posts and learn the setting for the greatest battle the field has seen in a long time. After that, join, and partake in bloodshed. -OoC

In the middle of some Nordic frozen wasteland, a hellish barren place in the coldest part of the human world, a dark castle sat brooding. Surrounded by miles of snow to its north and some sparse forests to its south, the castle seemed damnably isolated, even though any traveler with patience could easily reach it.

The structure was unbelievably massive, larger than some small cities, and rose into the sky like a pillar of Hell. Of course it was black, all such castles were black, but this blackness was all consuming, standing out against the grey sky as sharply as if it had been white or blue. No snow fell upon this place, or inside of it, and not a speck of white marred its bleak and perfect surface.

The architecture of the structure was not Gothic, or readily identifiable as being from any era of human building. The stone wall that surrounded it, easily fifteen feet thick and over a hundred feet tall, was lined with sculpted hands of many different races and species, humans first among them. These hands might have provided hope for a foothold to the casual observer, but one who looked closer would see that these hands moved, and writhed, and grasped at anything that they could touch, and any person who fell into one hand's grasp would fall into twenty more and be rent apart.

The walls of the castle only served to obscure the bottom-most part of the towers that rose up from the body of the place, and that was just as well, because the bodies of the towers drew the eye inexorably upwards. Dozens of them rose into the sky, twisting and spiraling and shaking as they rose, an appearance as unsteady as it was horrific. The whole place had the appearance of being organic, like the towers themselves were the limbs of a hellish tree, rising up into the air and clawing at the sky.

The entire castle was difficult to look at, a psychological weapon in and of itself, and it contrasted so badly with its surroundings that it looked like it had just been dropped there, or it had risen up from the depths of Hell and pushed aside everything in its path. It only hinted at what was inside of it, and surely this things were either men of terrible countenances or...something else. Something of undefined shape and terrible power, whose likeness men feared.

Looking up, traveling what felt like miles into the sky, one could see two figures that proved the latter idea. Standing atop the highest tower, which was peaked with the likeness of a wolf's head, mouth open to a full one hundred and eighty degrees, the ones called Darkness and Insanity stood.

Insanity's massive, grey hand was wrapped around the end of the tooth he used to prop himself up as he looked down at the landscape around the castle, looking for anything suspicious. Looking at him, one would have thought him a werewolf, but after a moment it became obvious he was more than that: he was over nine feet tall, for starters. His head was shaped like a wolverine more than a wolf, and the expression in his eyes was so shockingly human it bordered on appalling. His tail swished quietly behind him, and the fur on his otherwise human body shimmered impossibly in the grey light.

The one called Darkness had no such limitation as pain, and stood atop the razor tip of one of the jagged teeth with his left foot, resting his right atop of it. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he held the same vague shape to him as Insanity did, and was a massive twelve feet tall, but that is all that could be gathered from looking at him. He was cloaked in shadow that obscured him from vision, and his true shape remained a mystery to the uninitiated until he chose to reveal himself.

"They are coming," Darkness said. "I can taste their blood in the wind - many have not arrived yet, but many will come. They will cover the land like ants."

"Why will so many come?" Insanity asked Darkness without looking at him. His voice didn't waver, but the two even speaking like this showed many things about the current situation.

"They come to kill us."

"You mean they come to fight."

"Oh, no I don't. They come, and they fight, but they do these things to kill us. We have provoked them into something terrible, and today will only end in blood."

Silence hung between them for a moment.

"Why do you think we are doing this?" Insanity asked of Darkness, referring to the impending Jihad and the following cleansing.

Darkness did not respond immediately. "It is simple: living things by nature follow what humans call the Law of the Jungle. You kill or you are killed. Those who cannot fight are slaughtered. This place has grown weak, and as such must be exterminated." Slowly, that black head inclined itself towards Insanity. "What think you?"

"I disagree," Insanity said, predictably enough. "The only reason to goad people into battle is the battle itself - all glory lies in war, and all honor lies in battle. We will fight to the death, win or lose. We hope to win because we can go on and restore the spirit of war to this withered world, and in that way we can revive it. We will probably die doing it, but it will be glorious..."

"You're a hopeless romantic, Old One, if you believe in something as dubious as honor - especially in something that people find as distasteful as war. These people have become rats, and must be exterminated before they come nipping out our heels. You know of what I speak: our affairs have been meddled in once too often by these people. We are making sure this never happens again."

"I fight for the glory, Darkness, and I think most of these men do too..."

"Don't deceive yourself. The men we ally ourselves with are either creatures of insatiable bloodlust or shadows of men who clutch to old glories by feeding on the deaths of others. They are no better, in your eyes, than anyone I have at my command, and are even worse because they refuse to see themselves for what they are." And Darkness' eyes bore into the side of Insanity's head. "But not you. You're the worst of all, perhaps, merely because you really believe in what you're doing. You think you can redeem the world with fire instead of purging it. We have reached the end of days, old one, and this will be the last we see of this world as it is now."

And Insanity laughed. "I suppose you're right in that I am the worst of them all. God help me, I will clean this world of cowardice and rise to glory in battle the likes of which the world has not seen for a long time." And his laughter receded, and his eyes finally met Darkness'. "But that's not the problem now. They are bringing the fight to us. If we don't kill them here then they will kill us, and the whole world will fall back into complacency. The end of this would be the end of everything."

"We will not fail," Darkness said. He looked out over the fields, and movement stirred on the horizon, behind the scattered trees that made up that naked forest. "This is too important, and everything counts for too much. We cannot fail...we are many."

And Insanity restrained his laughter. "Indeed."

[ July 30, 2004, 11:06 PM: Message edited by: Wyborn ]

[Dusty]

The atmosphere was still and perfect. It never built into the piercing winds I’d known for decades, curling in squalls and howling like banshees, day and night. Here, even the weather and the seasons were smothered in a thick layer of permafrost. The ghostly gray-green needles of hundred-foot pines in the forest peeking out from under the snow that was falling then, and the pure feeling at even the sight of that beautiful cotton wafting like a feather to the ground… it was probably the fairest thing I’ve ever seen.

I had been contemplating all this from the bay windowsill, in front of a crude window with a shutter like a murder-hole, when there was a knock at my chamber door.

“Pere?” It was Marty, my chief lieutenant, asking with the timid, unobtrusive voice of slightly unhinged elders. Marty was a conscripted soldier, as well trained as any peasant’s dogs to herd, and to hunt when necessary.

In truth, Marty was starting to annoy me. I hated his questioning manner, his pathetic sagely presentation, as though his wisdom and experience were somehow worth so much more than mine simply for being so feeble in all qualities, as old as he was.

After a long pause: “come on in, Marty. No reason to knock.”

The cold black wrought-iron doors opened, and like a banker peering into his gilded vault Marty’s eyes flickered in a brief display of splendor. My chamber was cold stone lined by elegant native furs, insulation from the chill. A well-attended and always-burning hearth lay in a recession in the wall, across the chamber from the doors. Between the hearth and the door was my stately four-poster bed, with a feather mattress and a heavy fur blanket. It was all so much more than what Marty and the other soldiers got, cots and small pelts in the large vacancies on the lower floors. They had to practice all waking hours to keep warm.

I was vaguely uncomfortable with the arrangement, preferring not to have so much more than they, but not uncomfortable enough to say anything.

“Pere, the small company of conscripts you sent out the day before last has returned,” Marty said solemnly. His hands were clasped at his waistline, as though in prayer. “According to the scouts we sent out earlier and information from our allies, the natives have either fled or….” Marty tried to select the most prudent word, but failed. It was happening to him more and more often.

“How many heads did they return with?” I asked absent-mindedly.

“This company? Fewer than fifty. The region was never very heavily populated, and our allies had done much more before we arrived.”

He was right; but still, the first excursion brought back more than four hundred heads. “Half-rations for tonight, conscripts and knights.”

“Okay. Shall I send out scouts, another company, anything?”

“…No. We’ve done enough. Tomorrow, prepare the defense.” And Marty left, backing out of the door in a medium bow.

I was glad to have Marty leave, if you couldn’t already tell, but it was for another reason. Talking about the culls with him gave me a certain romantic feeling I was beginning to feel made me weak, especially in the vast, life-changing wake of that sensual first hunt that would open to a dozen more.

I remember the whole account very vividly, though I can’t claim to be accurate the further I go on. The beginning is easy, though; there was no real disorder in anything before the siege itself. I was on horseback, a loyal and mild-tempered mare with an even stride, riding alongside men as they tramped through the snow. Our scouts had tracked an Eskimo hunter, his trail as easy to follow as breadcrumbs in this still and frozen climate, carrying back his own quarry to his village.

The snow even seemed sweet to my eyes, as though I could taste the slow light shining off of it. The men were not so lucky, wading through the knee-deep snowfall, fresh from the night before, and struggling to keep rank as their phalanx moved between the incredible overgrowths of frosted pine. I wondered then if they were really smart enough to still appreciate the beauty of this velvet coverlet over the frozen soil, and the gentle grace of the pines, standing as still as mountains and yet growing unnoticed by anyone.

And then I saw it; I think I was the first to notice it and take pride in that. It was one pool that probably passed for a pond, the blood and gore of a recently kill and the heat coming off that doomed animal in its last breaths had melted the snow all around the body, leaving a large recess the shape of a large wolf in the snow, the water and blood pooling at the bottom of this wild basin and beginning to freeze again.

I mused whether or not meat would even spoil, this far from the life-giving sun.

I dug my spurs between the mare’s ribs, and she turned and rode forward, a line in front of the vanguard. The phalanx crossed her fresh path and ran forward, advancing through ranks of trees that became shorter with every foot gained.

The forest immediately broke, otherwise surrounding a snow-blind grove. The fur-walled lodges had crept to the edge of the village grove and were directly in front of the soldiers. The vanguard opened fire, perforating those fur walls, surprising and mutilating anyone inside. The riflemen then used their bayonets to rip into the lodge and run-through anyone not killed by the beginning salvo.

It was inhabited entirely by women, two-dozen or more whose hands were bloodied as they skinned and boiled that wolf. In other words, they were not innocents. Ambushed, yes, but not innocent.

The conscripts immediately found what served as windows, merely fur shades that could be rolled up to open a small square hole. From there they each fired a second time into the center of the village, killing three men outright as they looked the other way, and killing untold more numbers within those lodges. The knights were unwilling to simply stand and shoot from this safe vantage; each threw their rifles down to the snow floor and drew their prized steel, and streamed out the door of the lodge, running into the center of the village, where the hunters gathered, a set of perhaps fifty unorganized militia with spears but only the vaguest sense of how to use them as a rank.

I knew firsthand how unorganized they were; I was being carried into battle by the mare, now as willing as I was for a siege even on these peasants in the open grove. I was riding high, standing in the saddle and eager for battle and feeling almost romantic for my bloodlust. My rapier cut through the hides they wore as easily as it cut through their own skin, scraping against bone like a surgeon’s scalpel. These pathetic men could hardly provide for their village, let alone defend it; they were as guilty as the kitchen-women.

Soon the knights encircled and baptized the militia with steel.

The conscripted soldiers meanwhile went from lodge to lodge in their surprise manner, and before long we had taken more than one hundred lives. Women and children and even men were running into the woods, but we would not let the waning daylight end their lives and so deprive us of our rightful victory over even those refugees.

The soldiers never once paused to take something for themselves, and I attribute the victory to their quick response to command and to situation. The knights, as flawed by personal glory and reputation of name as they always have been, could never be as effective or as invaluable as the paid conscripted soldier. Not only were they unselfish and loyal, but they followed the fleeing peasants without command, and from the very hands of a child in those woods they took something priceless, for the good of the cohort; a native map, and the locations of more villages.

And when this taken treasure was brought to me they immediately formed rank without command. Then we marched into the night, fed and nurtured by our own incensed passion and bloodlust, a mother; rested and refreshed by every victory, a bed; and under the flowering sacred stars we left our enemies and our victims where they lay, sinews rent apart, and their still-warm bodies creating a recession in the pure snow, like that first quarry I met in the woods. We had a glorious, long raid upon those people that seemed like it couldn’t end from the moment it began. But even knowing that, nothing that followed could even touch that first contact in the snow-blind grove.

Looking back, I was overjoyed to be doing even that grim work. I was tired of the blue, every pallid morning before the sun had roused itself from under the horizon at our back, and tired even more of the opulent shadows of our white sails as they waxed and waned in the whipping gales and setting suns. And when we finally arrived, I was and still am drawn like a moth to candlelight, eager to fan the flames of change, spread them on the winds to bathe the earth, and salt it where necessary. I would rather be in this dark company than trapped forever in that wide gap between continents.

[ July 30, 2004, 11:23 PM: Message edited by: Dusty ]

[Erdawn Il Deus]

War.

War.

War.

The trumpets sing,

War.

War.

War!

The drums roar,

War!

WAR!

WAR!

The machine beats and whistles, gnashing gears spin through blood, rusted pistons pump their staccato dance, the clockwork engine of destruction swells with furnace fires of carnage and pain; the machine has come alive, and the machine is War!

Rearing their eyes and forms from behind twisted nether-battlements the foot soldiers take up arms, preparing to defend and preparing to destroy. The difference is plain, they are a hideous, obscene mirror of the knaves that walk across the ice-caked tundra to fight for their home; the thunderous Big’Uns of Darkness walking in bodies unseen to any eye, the human allies looking so frail and alien to the thundering abominations they shoulder with, and the twisted creatures born from the madness of the Worm.

On its own, the immense castle is a monolith of darkness, but even so the eye does not remain caught by it forever…

Striding across the edge of a nightmarish wall, one of the humans chances a glance upwards, to the tower that is so different and yet so similar to the macabre fortress he threads upon. It seems to lunge upwards with mind-bending architecture all the same older and all the same bigger than its surroundings, which is impossible we know – then again, this land seems to have been founded on the laws of the impossible. Defying the rules of earthly construction and physics, the tower is built downwards and holds an unnameable geometry vaguely suggesting hexagonal dimensions and yet giving an eldritch impression of the circular infinite. Its outer walls are of all shape and none; sculpted into a mosaic of torturing faces pressing out from their miserable fate; writhing in poisoned madness, gnashing with alien mouths and teeth and fangs in mute, vivid agony. The abomination in itself is of no colour understood by mortal eyes, a dark unearthly tint suggesting the true face of oblivion as opposed to the generic idiot black. There is no reason to the construct of it; forged in the furnace fires of an infernal mind more twisted than any hell-born nightmare, massive bone horns and incisor teeth curling upwards in a vile mockery of the abstract and a solemn dedication to incoherent wickedness.

It laughs at our meek physiologies and mathematics – it is so high that it punches a bleeding hole into the highest heavens and looks down in scrutiny at this world; it is so deeply rooted the world core knows it name; it is so far its breaths ignites stars and trembles alien nebulas; so present in its horror that things who watch all from the space between angled space cringe in anguish at its face. Its sight hurts the eyes and attacks the mind, it is there and yet should not be at all; our sightseer trembles in terror as his mind breaks loose from its organic bonds and twists, trying vainly to understand what it cannot; blood leaks from his ears and nose; his eyes fall inwards and his branching nerves ignite, he dies a quivering sack of weak flesh and blood. And what, What is crowned at the peak? What looks down on All as All looks up at It? What Horror, what Thing, what monstrous Being from which there is no knowledge and no salvation?

We see.

We are there, at its apogee; and we have not journeyed there, we are simply there, because to journey through this place across the spirals of bent glass and ephemeral windowpanes is impossible; and not the laughable impossible we witness scorned and spat at, but the true impossible that governs all things.

He is leaning over the balcony and looking eastwards with amusement, and he is What.

He is no man, and that we know without being told.

He is no woman, and that we know without being told.

He wears the mask of a male human, and that is where it begins and ends.

He has been called many things, because he has been to many places, and never with the same name within reasonable distance – if anything about this creature could be deemed reasonable. Here, where he stands and observes and mocks, he has been called Richter – Richter Iscariot Delacroix. He knows that they will call him such when they arrive, because they are foolish and cannot grasp things in a higher context. The name he has used most other-where than here is Jaffe; Ulric Jaffe, Randolph Jaffe, Kissoon Jaff, Harvey Jaffe, Michael Jaffe, Et Cetera. He has walked all places and beyond even that, and he has whispered poison and entranced masses, toppled kingdoms and burned civilisations; his business is chaos and anarchy, and when he is free – truly free from this pitiful dream – he will govern as a mad god while All Things are tossed to burn into the eternal furnace of chaos; the End of Days will be the Days of Jaffe! The Days of Madness! The Days of The Wyrm, The Dragon, The Beast!

But for now, he waits, and entertains himself.

He is handsomely tall with wiry limbs, wearing a long coat of leather the colour of blood split under moonlight, crowned with a flamboyant chapeau the same material and colour with an eccentrically wide brim and a worn flop. This and the bony gauntness of his face and cheeks give the impression of a vampiric scarecrow, eloped form a neighbouring cornfield. His hat is stuck with a massive violet plume, and his attire studded with twinkling brimstones, wrapped up with decorative chains.

His eyes remain locked behind prisons of crimson glass and iron wire, but they see far across the frosted plains or slate and ice, piercing the heroes who come and believe they can win. They come to defend their home, the so amusingly christened “Planet VGF”, – which always brings Jaffe to a hysterical titter – from an onslaught that will leave it a boiling stew pot of blood and fire. Foreshadowing the things to come, campers!, the lunatic suggests, his angular face split into a scimitar grin that should be more restrained by his human bone structure. Come one, come all! A gift-wrapped apocalypse, up for grabs and its Christmas early this year! Sorry only three horsemen could make it – Plague was sick and took the day off!

”U’EE HEE HEEEEHAHAHAHAHA! Special weather forecast for today: passing downpours of blood and gore with a slight chance of Armageddon! UWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!” Jaffe staggers backwards from the railing, bent double over with tears streaming down his sunken cheeks, wracked with hysterics. It tapered off into a restrained wheezing, his body still convulsing in laughter, and he straightened himself as best he could, turning his insanely burning eyes to the tundra. ”Hear me, kiddies! I am Gog, Gog of Magog! I am the Walrus! I am the eggman! Yellow mellow custard dripping from a dead dog's eye! GOO-GOO-G’JOOB!” He giggles maniacally, and strides across his overlook with lithe, graceful movements. This will be big – he has allied himself with great powers, and he does not trust them, but he does familiarize with most. And even that pipsqueak Yuri! He’s been at it with me for years, the wannabe hero! Yes, things were going fine and che-rry-wine, thank you so much. The battle would thunder until it shook the farthest reaches of the cosmos, and The Wyrm would be recognized more than ever.

”YOU HEAR THAT YOU LAZY BASTARD? I’LL CHOP DOWN THIS TREE BRANCH-BY-DOODLY-****ING-BRANCH!” He screams to what seems to be none in particular, his teeth barred like splinters of broken glass and his head turned upwards. ”Not even your heroes can save you now… not even them… not anybody…” Gingerly, he paces; they will attack soon, and then it will have begun.

OoC – Hello gentlemen. There are NPC armies ready to fight you and yours down(You have an NPC army at your side as well), and they are monstrous. They will act as they pretty much did in Good vs Evil. Oh, and keep in mind and be ready to die if your character is beaten too badly. Of course we can’t keep that permanent, but this is no Puss. E. Foot-topic either way and we have our best ready to throw down with you kiddies tonight.

[ July 30, 2004, 11:09 PM: Message edited by: Erdawn in the Hat came back ]

[Joker]

my god.......!

[ZIPPYDIPPY19]

The figure sat still upon the strange stump devoid of shadows, devoid of life, and devoid of sound. The lack of shadows lured the eyes of mortals to look his way, the absence of life chilled their very blood as it ran through their veins, and the silence was the haunting music they heard before they were relieved of what they hated and loved. What they held in highest regard yet spat upon when times went awry, their happiness, their sorrow, their soul. Mortals were weak, meant to be destroyed in his eyes, their frail forms and egotistical minds always ensuring each and every one that they were supreme, meant to rule as if they alone held some unconqerable power at their disposal. They infuriated him, their stupidity and their deception as they plagued there own sorry lives and their own doomed planet to the point where it was a no holds bar struggle for survival. That is why he fought, to cleanse his tormented mind of the sorrow on a minute scale, but on a much more grander perspective, he fought to purify that which was tainted. Humans were made to destroy and die, they held no purpose as they went about their weak little lives, and they would die obsolete, no one would weep over their misfortune, and no one would pray for their passage into heaven.

The thought brought a hollow smile to Zippy's face as he sat their, the moon sitting over his head like some cellestial judge debating on his controversial mind. The aura about him let him sit in silence, the damnable snow softly falling on his azure cloak as he cleared his mind of the distracting thoughts of chaos, and the accursed, ever looming thought of the human race. He sighed softly, sadly hoping that the action would somehow clear his thoughts, a forlorn hope that ended as a scowl replaced the smirk that had blessed his face a moment before. He could not even gain refuge from the mortals in his own mind! He wanted them dead, all of them dead in a hellish pyre, its flames formed of their own heedless hatred and its base that of their own fragile bones. His eyes burst open, the yellow orbs tinged red as anger briefly enthralled his mind, tempting him with the thought of rampaging through some random village to quell the mighty fury building in him.

The thought almost caused him to fall off the stump, though not because the ice caused him to shift in position, but merely because the thought had surprised him and simultaneously brought up memories of a demon long gone, the same one who had killed his family and ravaged his land. A demon who had trapped him, a devil who had beaten his mother for him to watch, a creature who had enslaved him for all eternity. Zippy stood up briskly, the cold shooting through him like a barrage of needles, but a strange notion had creeped into his mind at that moment, and the obscene nature of it forced him to get up and move about, a feeble attempt at shunning it out of his head.

He walked several miles south, a massive force sitting all about campfires ablaze with eery blue flames as their shadows danced about the crude tents they had constructed. They were all abominations, though to Zippy they were more heavenly than angel. Their hair was silver, flecked with a white so vibrant it was if the snow itself had bled into the folicles, blessing them with a magnificent sheen. The exquisite gear they had assembled was crafted of some foreign and age-old metal, its composition that of no mortal making, its insignia from some long forgotten forge deep beneath the earth's core. Soft moonlight fell upon the glistening surface, revealing it to be a milky bronze, and the armor stretched from neck to toe, the creatures' dull gray skin only showing where the armor failed to overlap. Most enthralling were their eyes however, the large blue spheres that hid the thought of the creatures, yet made them all too visible.

As Zippy walked into the camp they clambered to attention, each and every one noisily springing up and tilting their heads downwards in respect for their leader. They had each been hand selected, each a warrior of a fine calibre, but it was their nature that Zippy had fell in love with. They were Banshees, the creatures of legend whos prowess over their own screams left mortals barren of warmth and breath and whos wicked grins invoked fear into their victims' souls. Zippy grinned in sheer admiration for these companions, for they even shared his overwhelming hatred. They had all been banished by the humans, and they all wanted their chance at revenge, their own chance at reviving their dignity by the spilling of their enemies' blood. Zippy respected the view in mental agreement, and as he lifted his hand to put the army at ease, he could see the anxiety broiling within them. They were better than the humans in his eyes, they all looked after their own, knowing all too well that they needed all the help they could afford, for they despised all, and were despised by all.

He walked through the camp to the far side, where a tent no different from the others was set up, and inside was decorated not unlike the others. Zippy had never wished to be "above" any soldiers he commanded, they were his equals, and if fate would have it, they would die as equals. Zippy lay on his bedmat, his eyes staring into the rust-green tarp of his tent, looking in forlorn hope for some answer. Thoughts clouded his mind, though he did not doubt the quality of his army, their hatred would fuel them and their fury would wash away any stray compassion, they would perform at their best because there was nothing to retreat to, they had come to win or die. No, the thought that troubled Zippy was one he found he must speak aloud into the night, once again hoping something, some overworldy presence, some divine being would hear and offer an answer to vanquish the torment.

"Do I fight to die?"

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So we make an army and go to war? And you didn't say if only certain people can join, so if I crossed a boundary tell me and I'll edit...

[Joker]

* Eye's closed *


......... The deep darkness seemed to stretch forver, a near infinite void of emptiness that ran beyond the depths of imagination and spilt over the borders of space and time. In an instant the purity of the black void was violated as a blinding flash of light exploded with in the minds eye bringing enlightend thought and wisdom in to the darkness. Visions of the future came spiraling forth like rapid frames spinning off a movie reel. These images shot into the conscious mind as the brain itself processed each clip with pretenatural speed. Soon the darkness returned and the images subsided into the shadow. All that remained was the memory, the memory of the future.


* Eye's Closed *


......... Deeper into the darkness, further into the endless void his mind soared searching for the memories passed down upon him by his ancestors. He sunk lower into his consciousness calling upon the memories of the ones who were far more ancient than him. Gradually the voices of their deceased language began to echo out in the emptiness as they spoke of a time long ago. Each voice imparted a story of when these events had been carried out as a purification of sorts to cleanse the impurities of the worlds in each dimension. Words of knowledge flowed from thier auspicious voices as they spun tales of a time when the 'Jihad' was used to lay waste to the decay of weakness and bring forth new life and existance. And then like the images of the future the voices sank into the darkness and became absolute in thier silence.


* Slowly his eye's opened........ *

His inner chamber was dimmly lit by a few candles that emmited a serene balance of light and darkness perfect for meditating. Completely alone in his room his sharp sight landed upon the gleaming blades of his infamous weapons. The two swords belonging to the Vampire Lord hung opposite of where he sat indian style meditating with great reverence. He knew that all that was needed, was to take up those legendary blades and open a portal to the realm of the two individuals shroweded in shadow. How easy it would be to wage war against them bringing down endless legions of vampiric and demonic soldiers like drops of rain falling from the storm. But he would not go....he would not interefere....he would watch and wait for the end to arrive. He would not aid those with the courage to defy these two creatures of insatiable fury. He would be neither an enemy or ally this time around, he would be a "watcher" a spectator of the apocolypse.


Rising from his seated position on the floor, Joker slowly walked over to the window of his chamber and stared off into beautiful night sky.


" Let the war begin......let the blood be spilt....."

OOC: Forgive the grammar and spelling this computer unfortuantely does not have a spell check feature on it....damn it !!

[ July 31, 2004, 03:28 PM: Message edited by: Joker : Spirit of Vengeance ]

[Erdawn Il Deus]

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So we make an army and go to war? And you didn't say if only certain people can join, so if I crossed a boundary tell me and I'll edit...

If you so choose. The armies will of course be fighting but the true spectacle, methinks, will be the battles between the various characters.^^

And I get the feeling Joker is dying to join this.^^

[Joker]

yeah but I wouldn't dare slow down a topic like this simply because I couldn't committ enough time to write my posts or responses. So I'm forced to be just a spectator.

[Erdawn Il Deus]

^You all know we wish you could join this, man.

[ZIPPYDIPPY19]

You should join anyways Joker, even if you can only post occasionally that's still better than never. Plus the posts you do manage to write will most likely be awesome and it'll add to the epicness of it all

[ July 31, 2004, 06:53 PM: Message edited by: Zippy ]

[d]

May I use my typical technology? If so I'll keep my troop count low.I'll post after I get my answer.Besides that, I've got a bit of a headache now and don't feel like making up a post right now.

Also guys, thanks for making a topic like this.It'll be great, plus I'm going away from my games for a week but will still have internet connection.This'll be great.

[Marilink]

Holy crap...I'll join in when I have the time to read that stuff.

[Parrakarry]

Yeah, I was wondering a bit about technology as well. Does it have to be muskets and swords or can we have advanced technology?

[Wyborn]

Whatever kind you want. I know I'm going to be bringing in elements fo advanced technology in places

[Scripture]

It could be seen from miles away in any one direction, and that alone was concerning – no structure made by human hands should reach such a height, such a mass. It was impossible, it had to be. Alas, as one drew near to its maddening proportions, its sickening architecture, the impossible began to blur the line, eventually slitting the throat of such a line and leaving it there, in the snow, to bleed its lifeblood away. Trembling feet would carry quaking body forward, through the arduous snow; and the figure would be transfixed upon the sheer idiocy of it all – and that wall! Those faces! Hands! They couldn’t be…moving?

Again, it was impossible.

But one would forge on, fascinated by the spires and main body of the structure, how hellishly black it was…how the snow never made it glisten. And then one would realize you’re too close, too cold to move on. And as your mind separates from your body, you fall into the snow and the crystallization of brain fluids starts to set in, and suddenly you feel warm and the last thought that crosses your freeze stricken brain is that it all was simply a figment of your imagination – and then the warmth of sleeps set in, and death marks you down in his book.

Across this corrupted land was an air of hollowness, of morbid depression. All who ventured their felt it, though adapted to it much akin to a lost finger – you cannot replace it with anything, and therefore must deal with it, for better or worse. Most cases were worse. Sullen eyes, a need for death, the sudden realization that the man next to you is in fact sleeping with your wife – it all occurs under the reign of the castle. Only the sick and twisted can imagine being at its helm…only they who are steeped in insanity’s wrath can mount this black horse and trample they who oppose.

Richter Iscariot Delacroix was among these people.

And Isthmal Acheian Briem was among They Who Stand against the Castle.

His arrival was marked in the sudden stir of snow. From the snow burst a carving of ice so detailed and deliberate, only a master of carving could have performed it. Among the entrails of snow was a robe doused in chains around the waist and forearms, giving the entire piece a feeling of extraneous matter – the icy clothing, pulled to the wearer’s features by chains, seemed to be wholly too large for his seemingly lithe frame; lithe, that is, if not well muscled.

The clothing was off the rack. Now where was the purchaser?

Snow descended in droves throughout the land, but, noticeably, a humanoid figure shaped out of the flakes appeared for but a moment before spreading out and closing in haphazardly upon the robe. The globules of frozen water impacted the robe slyly in its inner sanctums, and began to materialize the very person who wore that which had been born from ice.

At first, he looked to share the carved feature his robe possessed – ice made up everything that formed from the snowflakes, which, unnervingly enough, had created ice that was a good twenty times their size at first impact. Soon, however, the ice gave way to a whitish skin; first it was the hands; from there the plague traveled up the robe; into the shoulder region; the face came into flesh with closed eyes; the coloration surged south and west, finishing off the upper body and granting previously pure ice the gift of thought.

With thought came blood-flow; the being’s heart was set into motion immediately, pumping rich, black blood throughout the veins. It was this blood that ran alongside ice-water, and it was this blood that would be spilled on this day, when war beckoned and death ran rampant throughout the planet of ‘VGF.’ What VGF stood for was beyond many, and the being that was currently becoming caught in the gears of time couldn’t care to give you his opinion on the matter, as his lungs had begun taking in the precious oxygen that seemed polluted with a plundering evil.

The former ice-statue’s ice shot open and it coughed; the air was retched. It was worse than anticipated.

Regaining its composure, it could be seen that the former ice-carving was in fact a man. A shock of disheveled almond, almost white hair crowned his head, while cheekbones of such distinguish made up his face it was no wonder he had appeared as ice. Cold, azure eyes threw cold, gnawing daggers from his skull, and his lips were, despite his efforts, still curled in a grimace from the air he had so copiously inhaled. His neck lead down to a body garbed in fine, flowing snow white cloth worthy of a king, yet worn from many days in wear. Chains wrapped around his torso, giving him just enough slack to move fully, yet were kept taut enough to enable protection. Chains comprised of a binding shackle that aided in securing a great mass of the links took up residence on his arms, and a great many dangled from the appendages, enabling an extra range for close combat – the main facet of such an encounter, the hands, were covered in a rounded, square tile gauntlet (with black leather taking up the spaces in-between) with a cross set perfectly into the backhand.. His legs were hidden behind the thick robe, but it could be seen that black boots adorned his feet, tied in strong leather lace for maximum resistance.

This man was a Commander of Ice: Mage of all things frigid and Bender of Gravity. His chains represented his partner, a subdued being of great power. And his name was Isthmal Acheian Briem.

Isthmal’s arms rose into the air, shaping his body into an abstract ‘V.’ His chains jangled a melancholy sound, and then a moment of silence passed among the winds. The silence weaved and dodged through the whipped air, but it was futile to hope such a moment would last forever, as the silence was caught and whisked away – an instant of serenity that one might wish for in the coming time. The winds took control again, and Isthmal bent the snow to his will, the moisture present in the air to his beck. Noticeably exerting force upon the world around him, Isthmal forcefully brought his hands down, now forming a cross. With that, the winds howled with renewed vigor, and the snow long since laid to rest grew hungry for life.

Taking on a verve of its own, the massive amount of snowfall to Isthmal’s back began to coagulate; slowly, surely it rose from its tomb, dividing among itself warriors of ice. Lumps of snow took on a clear facet to themselves before freezing over completely and defying gravity – defying logic. They rose with all the vigor of the Undead, but their number for than made up for it. First merely the frontline rose, the most monstrous part of the force; large firsts decked out in chains that eventually meandered their way throughout the entire form served as the magical conduits for Isthmal’s workings, and to offset the gargantuan ice masses were smaller, supple entities also garbed in chains. The chains were already in motion for the smaller parts of the army – which began to spread northward, along the frozen wasteland. Isthmal began to shake with the exertion, and his hands soon dropped inch by hard-fought inch to his sides – shoulders slumped, knees bent slightly, chains jingled.

And he smiled.

Here it was. His army, strong at the fore, and slightly weaker aft, the back part meant to clean up what the strong front-mass could not. But that was in such small terms. The actual army stretched out until they blurred with the snow, and one could only say with geographical reassurance that there was still snow to be had, and right where Isthmal’s forces ended, the snow was heavier, thicker. It did not, however, carry the fluttery sense of purity that the standing area for the newly arisen beings did. This was Isthmal’s doing.

Isthmal’s doing was also the bland look to most of the warriors. They were faceless, all wrapped eccentrically in chains with varying heights to them depending upon the area in which they were stationed. No muscle definition existed among the masses, though it seemed that sheer bulk and height could be used as a make-shift scale. The aft end of the army seemed to be mainly comprised of child sized, bulky sphere-like ice warriors with what seemed to be spider like claws for weapons and chains wrapped in an X patter around their torso (Which was all they were). Looking forward, the middle eased its way into the front, and this seemed only bisected by a mass of skeletal figures that suggested nothing more than markers. Suggested


Isthmal regained proper posture, and looked toward his target.

The castle loomed over him.

His eyes turned to slits, and he glared.

His eyes remained in such a slash as Scripture arrived.

The cyborg appeared from nothing, though one would note he appeared from the darkness of the forest, simply walking out of its depths without obscuring a bramble. His gait was easy, not acknowledge the moonlight before him, or the army behind him.

As Scripture had appeared, so did many other monstrosities with the same eyes as he, only steeped in the red juices of blood. They glared a caustic red across the snow, though Scripture’s own, azure eye, cut through the mass of light and blazed a heavenly blue across the snows. He was the leader, and his eye a beacon.

What did he lead?

Reaverbots of differing size, seemingly ogre-like conglomerations of metal – large hands terminated slim wrists of zombie-like wire, which lead into a body that was merely a sheet of plate-metal over a power source and yet more information carrying conduits. Legs that seemed almost boot like carried most, while anti-gravity generators carried the petite along with multiple plasma generators and cannons.

They were Dead Machines.

They were Scripture’s army, and yet, his former enemies.

Scripture entered the mainland of snow, and looked high into the sky. Through the heaven’s his vision burst, through the clouds, air. He found the pinnacle of this monstrous castle…

Crimson wire glasses and a grin stolen from Death’s sickle greeted him.

[ August 02, 2004, 01:30 PM: Message edited by: Scripture ]

[SuperLuigi64]

They came from the north.

Swarming masses advanced forward, looking upon the castle. Sneaking was not an option—the towers could see hundreds of miles in all directions.

Not that the masters needed such a view to tell what was coming.

This army was truly a sign of the gravity of the situation. Demon stood beside human with no thought of attacking him; all wills were bent, focused upon the legions that stood miles ahead of the, out of sight, at the base of the monstrosity that stretched to heaven. The humans were dressed fairly uniformly; their weapons, however, were largely varied. It seemed as though no two people carried the exact same armaments. Hardly any demons carried weapons; they relied on their natural-born talents. Demon genes were very erratic; it never really mattered who the parents were. The demons were practically the only things in the air for this army; flight was a rare gift among the present humans. However, flying above the mass of airborne demons was a large group of birds with human riders. Most of these people were armed with bows and arrows of varying style, with emphasis on power or range. A couple of them carried rifles, though. The birds were varied, ranging from swallows to eagles. There was even an albatross.

Apart from the main army stood a smaller one. These people were dressed in one two things: white robes and wooden armor. They stood in sections, and some have more armor than others. They were the clerics, warrior-healers and the elite fighters of this army. At the head stood three clerics. Epsilon was stacked up in wooden armor, yellow light shining from his helmet to obscure his eyes from those he fought so they couldn’t read him. He held a staff in his hand; one end was akin to a scythe, but it was attached on top of the staff rather then the side, giving more options when fighting. The other end held a blade too, but it was shaped like a hook. Iridion was decked out in wooden armor, but it was not so thick and plated as Epsilon’s. Purple light shone from her helmet, and a purple smoky substance wafted continually from her hands. The woman in the middle, Atria, was better known as General Redwood. She lived up to her name—her armor was insanely massive, enhancing her already intimidating seven-foot height. People think she’s a man until they see her. She carried a massive warhammer in one hand, slung over her shoulder. Multiple smaller axes dotted her armor—obviously for throwing. One particularly shiny axe on the left hip caught some attention.

A humanoid vulture holding a scimitar flew over the Avenriders as they entered another formation and dove, landing quietly beside a group of warriors. He stood side by side with the Five, the people he had so long ago sworn to kill on sight. Blaze, Depth Charge, Avalanche, Airbuster, and Omega had all tangled with the evil bird on multiple occasions, but the very magnitude of the situation alleviated all their fears. The Twins, of course, did not fear Carrion; Esuna was as powerful as Carrion, Ashura far more so. Persephone, too, held enough power to rip Carrion apart. But none of that mattered now.

In the blink of an eye, three men were beside Carrion. They were once men, but then Carrion has forced his dark powers on him. Their memories had rotted away, in order to make their bodies faster and more powerful than ever. Their will had been rotted away to improve their nervous system so they had increased reaction abilities. Their spirits had rotted to provide them with far more battle knowledge than they had had while alive. And their emotions had rotted away to provide sheer talent and power. They were triplets. And they were Carrion’s slaves.

They stood, waiting for several minutes. Even Airbuster, who normally couldn’t stop grinning, looked grim and serious today. Esuna noted that not one woman had been so much as touched in three days—quite a feat for the lightning-wielding simpleton.

They waited for a few minutes. Finally, Blaze spoke.

“The perfect opportunity to destroy a prime source of evil.”

“We can’t kill him,” Depth Charge replied in his usual alert, nearly monotone voice.

“We’ll see about that.”

They all looked at the tower; all of them could feel the presence up there, but Blaze could actually SEE Darkness, even from this amazing distance.

“Everyone who has a soul will perish today,” Ashura said as he stepped forward. For the barest instant, across the miles and the vast expanse, the dark judge locked eyes with Richter. Chaos and order, madness and balance. A meeting was bound to exist.

Ashura turned to face the others. “Judgment is over.” “What?” Omega asked, curious. Ashura scowled. “My sister and I have spent too long in these mortal shells, and have allowed you to domesticate us for too long. That was our weakness. And now we have lost the ability to judge a person on sight.” Ashura turned and looked at Blaze. “For this reason, we must kill everyone who’s soul is tainted in any way. Including all of you.”

Persephone snickered. “If you say so. This is going to be a difficult fight. You sure you’ll live long enough?” “Yeah,” Airbuster added, “everyone’s taking this seriously. Even me.”

“You have no idea how serious they are taking this.”

Everyone turned. Persephone’s eyes widened. “Shinraki?”

“Hello, sister. The clerics have freed me from my chains for this battle.” Shinraki walked forward, a simple hand-and-a-half sword resting on his shoulder. Every person present knew of him, even Ashura and Esuna; Shinraki was the greatest swordsmaster of Blaze’s world. He was amazingly strong and fast, and his skill held no equal; however, he had a certain bloodlust about him, an inner self that, once awakened, had a thirst that could only be quenched by blood. He was a danger to all around him, and only stopped his blade for his sister. For that reason, he was held captive by the clerics. That they had set free their weapon meant that they truly intended to purge this land.

Shinraki turned. “The plan?” “We wait,” Depth Charge said.

“So be it.”

[Shinigami]

There once was a legend, something so fragile that people held it on their lips, whispering it to one another because anything louder and it would vanish. That legend grew as I did, developing into something greater as each day passed, and every man fell to my feet, cold as cleaved slate. Whenever I stared down at their bodies, watching their motionless forms, I wondered; I pondered. Every time I peered at them, the life pouring from their veins, their eyes rolling into the backs of their heads, their mouths opening as their tongues fell to the back of their throat, where the sound of them choking echoed through my brain like a sweet sonata. It was somehow harmonious.

The legend I speak of was the battlefield, and the men who served and died on it. It was the place where people fell, and where noble heroes shed their blood for causes they never knew. I was once a hero—a hero of legends, though I long since lost that title because I returned to a village of flames, watching as the last embers burned out before my humble body, my friends, family, and associates charred and turned to ash. That was the day my legend broke and shattered in front of me like stained glass, fallen fragments of my heart covering the ground around my feet. That was also when I fell to my knees with my hands covering my face, shedding tears that rolled down my cheeks like the blood of my enemies down the winding hills.

Originally, the pain I felt was for those who died, but that all changed. I don’t remember anymore how it changed, but it did. Something just seized me, where it was then that I knew I was free. ‘Free’, what a word. It was somehow what I always wanted yet never sought, and when the crackling of flame set me free, I felt an overcoming joy that stole my soul and reassembled my heart, and from that point my demeanor changed.

Ever since then I traveled the world and fought my foes fiercely and however I wished, for I no longer had anyone to impress. I once sailed across a vast and endless ocean, painted before me in an endless stream of beauty, the trickling light from the stars falling down to the deep blue canvas below.

After twenty days and nineteen nights and after fighting countless battles at sea, I arrived on the land where I am now, the continent where a new dawn arises, the blood red sun reminiscent of the souls I slain at sea. There were no elegies for those sad soldiers who fell to my blade, and the only applause I received was the singing of my sword when I returned her in her scabbard. In truth, the people’s cheer no longer concerned me; I merely fought to survive, and survive I did. I lived to an age of sixty-three, and now here I stand, not knowing what lies before me as I emerge onto a new battlefield, climbing a hill already stained with blood and littered with the fallen, decaying bodies of the poor husks of those who fought to be a hero.

I choose my own battles now instead of defending people because I care for them due to my duty, and I suppose that is what led me to this place--the place that could very well be my grave.

When I reached the top of the flourishing hill, I noticed that in the distance there was a dead crater of land, blackened soil and dried plants, and the earth sunken in so low that it appeared compressed by the weight of the divine. Before me I saw a wicked construction designed by a madman, the proportions a physical impossibility and yet it stood as tangible as any flower. For a moment I wondered if the building was real, and I rubbed both my wary eyes with my fists, ensuring that my age wasn't catching up with me. When I unlatched my lids and scanned the distance with my grey pupils, I saw that the obelisk was still there, as tall as ever saw that the obelisk was still there, as tall as ever; that's when I knew the nightmare was real.

I reached down into my brown leather jacket pocket, and pulled from it a silver flask, smooth on all sides, unsnapped the cap, and put it to my lips where I drank its acrid contents. I immediately took it away from my mouth, snapped the cap back into place, and threw it into its home, where I swallowed the flaming beverage that bit my tongue and scorched the back of my throat. I quickly withdrew my love from her sheath, hearing her piercing song ring through my ears, where I then approached the large monolith that taunted me. I carried my sword at my side, and my eyes narrowed as my body drew closer. The wind blew to the east that day, my grey hair and my short, white beard blowing with it while the brown boots I wore left behind me the tracks I made, as if proof was needed that I ever existed.

I remember that day well, for I recall then that I had no idea whether I would survive this or not, and that didn’t matter, either. If I died, so be it, but I would take an army with me. That much I knew, and that was all I needed.

As the beverage died on my lips and vanished from my tongue, the taste of blood returned to me. How I long lingered for that familiar taste. Finally, I had it again, and I loved it. Nothing would stop my everlasting, undying desire, and nobody would live who got in my way.

Out of Character Note:
Let it be known that Dusty is a thieving ass =P

[ August 02, 2004, 07:48 PM: Message edited by: Shinigami Cowell ]

[d]

Above the planet in space a battle raged with the fury of a thousand suns.As missiles streaked in space toward their intended targets and beams reached out to deal their fair share.One fleet had been much larger than the other.But the smaller fleet had quickly cut it down to size, but not without taking it's own casualties.
The superdreadnought Alpha Centauri III shook violently as it's shields absorbed several more nuclear missiles.
"Sir, the Sol and the Al'ka'sheen are severely damaged.They're our only ships left in combat" an ensign reported.
"DAMN!there went the Al'ka'sheen.How many enemy ships are there?" General David said as an alarm went off warning the the shields were at 5%.
"Only three sir, but the Sol just went up" the ensign answered.

A powerful beam brighter than the brightest of stars shot out of a hidden compartment and struck upon one of the smaller enemy frigates left over.It impacted the smaller ships hull and dug through it to the hyperdrive.It blew up in a small sun taking another frigate with it.All that was left was an enemy superdreadnought, but the Alpha Centauri III took another hit and it's shield went down.
"Set course to ram it, and give the order to abandon ship" GD yelled at his ensigns.
They did so and they all left the bridge as the abandon ship message and alarms screamed.GD got into an assualt shuttle with some of his marines and they took off just a minute before the 2 superdreadnoughts collided.They exploded in a dazziling ball of plasma.However, they enemy fleet had gotten there first, and the lifeboats/shuttles soon found that the enemy had seeded space with seeker mines.All but 3 shuttles made it to the surface of the several hundred that had gotten off of varying ships.


They made it to the surface together flying by a giant dark castle.They landed several miles away, but it could still be seen.The shuttles formed a triangle with their backdoors facing inward.
"Move it marines, set up a parameter.Coxwain! get over here now!" GD ordered even before the door on his shuttle had even finished decending.Marines clad in their ACS's ran out and begin to pick defensive positions.The coxwain walked over to David by the shuttle's backdoor.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Yes, did you see anything else besides the castle? I saw your face light up in surprise looking in another direction." GD said softly.
"Yes..yes sir, off to the south I saw a giant army of.. of.. well I'd have to say demons and humans.I'm not completely sure what I saw" he said in a very light, scared voice.
"Alright." GD told him and than turned to face the center of the triangle."OK PEOPLE! LET'S SET UP CAMP!STANDARD PATTERN!" he bellowed.

Several minutes later a couple tents were set up inside the triangle along with a few more being set up.Also on the perimeter a couple bunkers were being made from snow and metal on hand.

OOC:I hope that will do for now.

[Erdawn Il Deus]

OoC-- Post Pending, kiddies. It's a big'un, s'why it's taking me so long, but it couldn't be helped -- lots to do and only one post to do it in.

[Parrakarry]

Don't post yet, Erdawn -- MY post is pending, too. If I can do it in about 10-15 minutes, it'll be done in about 10-15 minutes, but if not it'll be about an hour more.