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#Post#: 405798--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Exiled Mage
By: Imperfect Date: February 21, 2016, 1:32 pm
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Every life in the city is sacrifical to Irusia, every child,
every mother feeding said child the ripe fruit of their bosom,
and every father who had gracefully taken on the role of
provider, and wielder, all the same. There is not a single mild
bone in the woman’s body or any grief shadowing her pale orbs as
she stands, seemingly looking over her partner now disappearing
into oblivion, his darkness scattered around him, all too
beautifully and it was then, one of the older archaists makes
his way into the room with the red door. Unknown to him, it
would become the room where he meets his end. Hoicking, coughing
and gagging, and slightly out of breath, he attempts to lift
his hand to use his power as a means to hurl her into the dirt
as he had done not so long ago when she was banished.
Irusia clears her throat with a growl, her body blocking the
light of the moon to cast a darkness over the room, watching him
as he drops to his knees, at her will. From the palm of her
right hand, dark tendrils of black smoke irrupt, a discoloured
tongue extruded from the corner of her mouth as she moves across
the room, to place a firm hand at the base of his neck.
“Oh how I wish to see your face, Viyar.”
The night’s sky pales in comparison to the shadows rising from
Irusia’s palm as she diffuses the dark energies and watches them
possess the very bones in his body. When he turns limp with his
mouth agape, and eyes that yearn for freedom, she steps past
him, and makes her way towards the door. The puppet would stand
up and also follow, having no control over his intellectual and
nervous activity. If the ruling powers hadn’t gotten the message
with the head she had flung across the kingdom, surely this
would seize their attention. Her body glides down the stairs,
the older man behind her keeping close and as they make their
way to Calarook’s alcazar, the people of the Kingdom look at the
two behind the comfort of their windows, their houses providing
some security, though shrouded with her warrior’s shadows.
“What you, and everyone else here fail to understand,” she
speaks as she continues on, “is that the person ruling is
incompetent of doing so. He makes poor judgements for his land,
for his people, and do not mistake my intentions, I care not for
either, but. . .you and I both know he had this coming.”
A wicked laugh erupts from her throat when his eyes widen and he
wills himself to argue, finding he’s unable to express himself
vocally. She stops at the castle, no guards apparent, though
they may well have been using a cloaking spell. Her slender
fingers wrap around the pendant hanging from her neck, and
instantly, a shield is cast around her entirety, while the hum
of a spell fills the air around her. In the centre of this great
-theatrical- pandemonium, a sphere of scarlet and orange engulfs
the area, and hurls itself, seemingly at its own accord, to the
castle doors, breaking it down completely with a deafening thud.
Beyond the door, nine elders stand in a defensive stance, ready
to protect their King, even if it means death, and she smirks as
she makes her way forward. If there was ever a time for her
Warrior to prove himself like he wished to, so profoundly, this
would be it for all she wanted to do was to get to Virion, to
watch him burn, along with his empire. . .
#Post#: 406013--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Exiled Mage
By: Default User Date: February 29, 2016, 3:33 am
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Aden drifted through his master's hair like wisps of smoke cast
aside by wind; tendrils of darkness swimming behind him as he
entered the soon-to-be tomb before her and witnessed the elders
awaiting destruction. He moved like a coiled serpant; nothing
more than the whispering shadow of death, and when the time
came, he would let bear the fangs and end their misible plight.
Though that time was not quite at hand, and he preferred to
witness those he stole from; even when stealing their life away:
So he ensnared the room with his likeness; darkness encroaching
from all angles as the very edges of reality broke away and
revealed absolute horrors beyond reason.
Dark abominations leered out at the elders from all pockets of
hell as their minds were torn bit by bit down to a core of
madness and isolation. Their wills to live would slowly slip
beyond grasp, but long after their ability to escape the
monstrosities of Aden's creation. There sight would be stolen by
abhorrent beasts with thick decaying fingers: Unable to hear
beyond their own screams and the viciousness echoing in their
minds, they would become deaf out of despair alone: Unable to
fathom the horrors they witness, the truly unspeakable
atrocities beyond their domain, the men would all fall to their
knees in true fear. Fear of another instant alive. Of another
breath taken in such a grasp as the nightmare had on them.
Aden allowed every tormented expression to linger on his lips as
he stole away their sanity piece by piece. Hollowing out their
very souls as he anchored their bodies to the floor and watched
them writhe in terror. His joy would pour from them in waves of
agong, as he makes his way to his godesses side once more. He
knew she wanted the king for herself, and for that very reason
the one elder man stood alone amidst the chaos. His eyes were
glued to the master; body wracked with fear and confusion as the
men around him shrivel into nothingness, and as Aden watched in
silent anxiousness for the next move, he would let slip a slight
laugh at the expense of all the men before him... Weak...
Pathetic... Old...
Aden and his master were the future... He would stop at nothing
to realize his master's dream... He would kill for her. He would
die for her...
He preferred to kill though... Such was the bloodlust of
darkness inside him. Her darkness... Her gift to him as payment
for his soul...
#Post#: 406253--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Exiled Mage
By: Imperfect Date: March 6, 2016, 11:41 am
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As Irusia’s father stands and watches with wide eyes the men
behind her crumble to their demise, there is no doubt in her
mind that his violence at home, his opium madness, his petty and
coarse talk, and his perpetual boasting and constant harassment
had influenced the imagination of the wholly pure and -young-
inexperienced daughter. The same daughter whose dark magic now
ran from the tips of her slender fingers, the tendrils of black
smoke imprisoning them both, Virion’s line of vision blurring
for but a moment before they stand in the middle of a room. The
man could only muster a look of confusion in the wrinkles of his
forehead when he realises his magic couldn’t serve him within
the confines of these four walls and when he realises it’s a
snare of some sort, he looks to her for the answers,
contemptibly. In the middle of a room, standing tall, is a
succubus, and scattered around her, are dark objects, notable to
their Kingdom, and to their magic.
“Representational magic,” she finally coos, looking over at the
old man in an amused manner before taking a seat in the chair
behind her, “chambre de chasse, you taught me this one,
remember? Look for the thing that best represents you, and
you’ll be free.”
She laughs theatrically at her own choice of ironic words; the
minx had combined two spells so that when he does eventually
break free of the first, he falls into another; one where he
would suffer for as long as he lives. She didn’t want to give
him the pleasure of a quick death, noble men died quickly, and
Virion was far from noble. Because she knew the history of his
archaic trespasses, she could almost hear the voices of those
sharp moral repulsions of their society, and then those dismal
moral questionings, the latter didn’t make it through the night
for their heads would hang on a line the next day, bearing
witness to all what the trepidation would be if they found fault
in the line of succession, like many had with her father.
"Why're you doing this, daughter?"
He moves towards the statue, figuring it represented his
misconduct of the one heir he had, but he would soon come to
learn it wasn’t the succubus that was his key to what he thought
would be freedom, when truly, it was a fiery pit of hell, and it
wasn’t any of the items on the floor, either. When he had
exhausted himself looking around, he kneels before her, begging
for help and she wallows in his pathetic cries and pleas,
standing tall to venture towards a glass box, with two
butterflies in it. When she was young, her father would call her
butterfly, but combined with the spectacle of Virion’s
increasing moral decay, it felt virtuous to produce a bitter
mandate of conscience, under which she had picked the arthropoda
to be the binding link, and the pinnacle of her spell. The
butterflies looked almost identical, the upper sides of the
wings a tawny orange, the veins and margins black, and painting
the margins, were a series of small, white spots.
“The Viceroy and the Monarch, Virion.”
She walks closer to the man, letting him observe the beautiful
winged creatures, a look of fear plastered on his face now.
“Beautiful things aren’t they?” She smiles, “the only difference
between the two is that one produces a poisonous mist and
because of this, animals don’t prey on neither. They leave the
Monarch alone in fear of death.” When he comes to realise what
she intended to do, he begins to beg again but Irusia had
already loosened her grip on the glass box, letting it shatter
to a million crystalised pieces on the floor, the walls of the
prision breaking along with it, as Virion fell, the toxic gas
filling his lungs quickly.
Now, he would rot in pain and agony, until his pathetic end.
When Irusia comes back to the castle, the first thing she looks
for is her Warrior, pleased when she sets eyes on him, and his
destruction, the elders laying on the floor, like battered meat.
“The city is ours.”
Finally.
The city was theirs.
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