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#Post#: 347787--------------------------------------------------
The Broken Spire
By: Beralai Date: July 25, 2013, 11:25 pm
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The Broken Spire. A tower that attests to the simple brutality
of unchecked power. The Spire is hidden amidst the mountain
ranges, covered from view by it's own destruction. All that
remains of the once-mighty Spire are the vastly large chunks
that litter the surrounding mountain range.
The Spire, in it's prime, was rumored to reach the very heavens
themselves. Until the Criviskarians lost their patron's favor,
it was a place of peace, and meditation for those that sought
it. The Spire allowed them to look across the Forsaken Plain,
The Devil's Ridge, and Criviskar in unison, always proving to be
a Bastion of Defense.
Now, centuries after the fall of the Criviskarian Empire, a
single man resides within the Mountain Range. Constantly atoning
for his family's recklessness and cruelty, Beralai moves through
the wreckage, salvaging what he can.
#Post#: 347792--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Broken Spire
By: Beralai Date: July 26, 2013, 3:02 am
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Beralai moved about the rubble, shrugging and shouldering
boulders left and right. Not making a dent in the mass amount of
rubble about him. His crimson eyes caught sight of an ancient
spear, wedged under a boulder into the ground. As he moved the
boulder from atop the spear, he took a moment to gaze at the
artifact before him, a memory accompanying the sight.
The Graavar Highlanders, natives of the Forsaken Plains, had
laid siege to the Spire, back then known as "Heaven's Ascent".
The Graavar Highlanders were highly praised and versatile
fighters, claiming only two losses since the creation of their
civilization. The Graavar were pressing hard through The Devil's
Ridge, bringing hardly any caualties to themselves as they
fought the Criviskarian soldiers. Every Criviskarian had some
sort of Knowledge or Innate Ability since birth. A gift from
their Patron. The soldiers were trained and taught how to fully
use their abilities. But the Graavar's disciplined fighting and
sheer number of men was more than enough to take Devil's Ridge.
A soft sigh passed by Beralai's lips as he knelt down to
retrieve the spear. After grabbing the spear he checked it's
durability, spinning and throwing the spear as hard as he could
at one of the larger, still-standing walls. The spear shrieked
through the air at the force used, audibly slamming into the
stone. The stone splintered heavily at the sight of impact, but
remained whole. As he watched the spear fly through the air, the
memory continued.
Beralai's brother, Xylra, cast his final gaze upon Beralai, his
reassuring smile faltering, his body teetering before falling
from his perch on the side of the Spire, his life already gone
before the unforgiving ground ruined his body. The Graavar
Chieftain bellowed out a roar of success, his men quick to
follow. A Graavar Spear, shattered, remained protruding from
Xylra's still chest. A Bloodlust filled Beralai at that moment,
an all-consuming hatred for the Graavar.
Beralai shook his head, trying to clear his head of those
memories.
#Post#: 347796--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Broken Spire
By: Beralai Date: July 26, 2013, 4:05 am
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The memory refused to die. His eyes moving across the landscape,
watching a battle that had already taken place.
Beralai's eyes stayed on the lifeless form that was his brother.
Reality fading away in that critical moment, his eyes bursting
into pure, radiating crimson as he cast his gaze upon the
Graavar, seeing them simultaneously freeze at the sight of him.
His voice echoing off the Mountain Walls, "The Graavar seal
their fate this day." The simple sentence rebounding off the
walls, echoing back even louder so all the soldiers could hear.
As if completely renewed, the Soldiers fought with such ferocity
and tenacity that the Graavars had to fall back and regroup. As
they fell back, Beralai cast his gaze to the Spire, silently
praying to the Unseen Patron. "Give me the strength I need to
right these wrongs." He felt a sudden serene calm sweep over
him. His Patron had answered.
The ground shook and spasmed violently, something breaking
through the crust of the world. A six-foot long, black tendril
ripped through the ground, leaving a chasm in it's wake. The
tendril forming into what seemed a liquid blade. The blade
drained in the light about them, his level of anger seeming to
add to the potentcy of drain. What had been midday now seemed
like twilight. The handle of the blade formed itself into a
form-fitting glove, allowing him perfect maneuverability and
manipulation of his blade.
It was quiet until later that night, when the blade seemed
serpentine in it's movements, acting of it's own accord,
flicking the tip of the blade like a cat's tail, excited. He
pointed the blade at Devil's Ridge, seeing the numerous
campfires that littered their encampment. One simple word was
uttered. "Consume." The blade lashed forward, finally been let
loose. The black blade, ripped through the fabric of reality,
distorting the world about it for it's own use. The blade
continued to lengthen to no end as it forced it's way through
it's wormhole. What seemed like a vast black shadow formed
around the Graavar encampment. Thousands of screams echoed
across the Ridge, only to be silent a moment later.
The blade draining each one of their essences, adding to his
own. Beralai dropped to his knees, feeling all the souls
transfer to him. For a moment, he could even hear all of them,
each one distinct as if face to face. But that faded as they
added themselves to him. The soldiers looked upon him with
something akin to worship.
Beralai closed his eyes, the memory finally fading.
#Post#: 361546--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Broken Spire
By: Beralai Date: January 23, 2014, 8:17 pm
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Shaking his head to clear his mind of memories past, he
continued to move the seemingly never-ending rubble to clear the
original path. After days of toiling endlessly he allowed
himself to sit against the base of the tower, the lowering sun
keeping him warm, soaking into the fabric of his clothes. His
eyes gazing up into the clear blue sky. As much as it pained him
to think on it, he knew it was best that he was the only one
left of his family. Most of the Criviskarians were ruthless,
blood-spilling atrocities. His brother's and him were the only
ones that weren't inherently destructive. Well, except for
Xylra. But at least he controlled his anger better than their
Father did.
He closed his eyes, thinking back to his father.
Lord Zezir. A giant of a man. Standing at a noticeable six-foot,
eight inches tall. His eyes an enthralling emerald green. Black
hair that flew back and down his shoulders, cascading down his
back and ending at his tailbone. Lord Zezir looked no older than
thirty years of age. But to a race who didn't become venerable
for eons, that didn't mean much. His physique was that of a man
in his prime; hard-packed muscle, scars dotting across his body,
with which he wore with pride. His smile was more than enough to
get him by, but he enjoyed the thrill of hunting and killing
more than anything else. To take that life, feel it and watch it
leave the husk as it departs on it's own journey, only to be
halted and taken by him. The look in his eyes when he took
someone else's life, was frightening to say the least. The
Hunger. The Need to take.
Beralai couldn't help but to smile at that thought. Zezir was
insane, but he was a marvel on the battlefield.
Zezir planted his feet as he bellowed out across the Gorge. The
sound reflecting off the Gorge's walls, getting louder, the
sonic vibrations cracking into the Gorge, entire chunks breaking
away, leading to the deaths of a few hundred Graavar Soldiers.
Their screams unheard over the ensuing land slide. Zezir and his
men started to laugh. "The fools! They think they can wage war
on the Criviskarian Empire?!" He asked incredulously. "Well,
let's give them what they came for!" With that, he shifted his
atomic placement and re-atomized in the middle of the Graavar
camp.
His chest as bare as the day he was born. A pair of torn
trousers was all that adorned him, other than his blade. The
blade began to manifest a green light at the tip, immediately
allowing himself to be seen by everyone. A shocked murmur broke
through the lines of men, before the sound of weapons being
drawn and unsheathed took it's place. With a smile not his own,
he dispatched them of their unnecessary lives. Dashing forward,
he gripped a Graavar Highlander by his throat, lifting him from
the ground, danging within his grasp, his hands raking at
Zezir's, the potent smell of fear washing through the whole
camp. Zezir's speed. It was astonishing to witness. As the
Graavar men watched their leader struggle, Zezir was already
acting. His blade began to pulse, noticeable by all the men.
Each pulse ebbing away the life force of the men about him,
adding to his own vast pool of strength. The men, feeling
themselves weaken, lurch forward, trying to get to Zezir.
With a flick of his wrist, the Graavar Leader's neck snapped,
his head rolling to the side at an odd angle as he tossed the
body effortlessly towards the closest group. The strength behind
the toss more than enough to knock the soldiers off their feet,
the resounding kinetic energy around the force catching more men
and flailing them away. Spinning around in a semi-circle, blade
raised horizontally as his speed propelled himself twenty feet,
clearing a line of men and sundering them in two. Whipping
himself around as he jumped into the air, his blade hitting
nothing but the energy flying behind it created a gash into the
earth, wiping a squad from existence. As he landed, he twisted
the blade to meet the ground first, a shockwave pulsing out from
the center, cratering the ground around him as the force of the
shock obliterated the rest of the men. His eyes a Monstrous
black, before fading back into his striking emerald.
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