(All welcome to join, send me a note about what sort of character you should have... this rp is based on a world I created for a series I can\'t quite seem to kick off, if anyone wants to join, I can debrief you on the nature of the prelude rp you missed out on (ended up being 16 pages) and I can supply information on the world and such so you can fit in easily and understand the rp as it goes on... Open to anyone as long as you send me a note, and multiple characters are welcome!)
Help topic is now under construction:
Information Database(UPDATE! Several premade characters with prominent roles are
also available to you! (Still accepting original characters!) Some only come into the rp later, so you\'re welcome to join with a second character earlier on that can stay with us, or die later, at your own request as long as you run it by me!)
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He was too warm to be dead, and too cold to be living. Beneath the tattered ruins of his shirt, a heart beat, but faintly, as if on the brink of failing. His breath was short; a low rumbling that entertained his lungs only sparingly. His own body was teasing him. It pushed him towards death, but kept him in the light of life.
He was too young to die, and too old to have not yet lived. His skin was weathered, worn and tanned by travel. His muscles were solid, his build sleek with grace but firm with trained resilience. Even in his broken, fading light, he still radiated the aura of a man to be feared. His hand still reached out for his sword, fingers brushing against the leather-wrapped handle.
He was too far gone to save, yet he had not given up. His eyes strained to open and his fingers finally wrapped around the handle of his sword. Using it to prop himself up, he held his other hand to his chest, as if it could stop the flow of blood beneath. A snickering drew his eyes open at last, the taunting laugh of his enemy filling him with the rage he needed to overcome his pain. His own lips parting in a thin smile, he finally stood, body shaking with anticipation. Through his silvery locks of hair, he could see the other man circling around, slender sword swaying back and forth in his light grip.
"Don\'t struggle Cyric. Embrace the dark, let go of the light."
Shaking his head, Cyric stumbled forward, steps gaining momentum as he surged forward. The man side-stepped him, blade darting up again and Cyric gasped, blood draining from his side.
"Walk in the shadows, watch the light. Be wary of its call and be ready to fight." The man paused, wiping Cyric\'s blood from his blade. "You haven\'t forgotten, have you? Forgotten why I brought you back?"
Cyric trembled, pulling himself off of his knee and to his feet again. He didn’t respond, but his blue eyes did narrow dangerously.
The man chuckled. "You do remember. Well, my master\'s offer remains. All you need to do is step out of the light and embrace him."
Cyric gasped again, struggling to keep his body moving. When he opened his eyes again to glare at the man, he was gone. Voice barely a whisper, Cyric cursed and spat blood. "Damn you Zyrden, and damn your master too. Born a paladin of the light, I\'ll die one." Yet, as he finally collapsed, the last thing he remembered before passing out were those burning eyes, and the lich\'s cruel blade piercing him.
***
“The dwarf... Next step of their journey? Who’s Journey...”
“The prelude to insanity. The end of all.”“Why the end? We almost had the sword...”
“Dal’Fal. The Sword of Slaughter. Yes, we know.”“Sword of Slaughter... who are you?”
“We, are whoever you need us to be.”“But we didn’t get it... our journey...”
“Was three years ago.”“Three years... the anthem of a thousand cries...”
The lives of great ancient beasts snuffed in the blink of an eye...”“The sky burning with the visage of chaos...”
The dead rising at the beck and call of demons to-”“-March. The sword is calling to them-”
-Calling to me...”“Calling to us.”
”We need to wake up. Open your eyes Cyric.”
***
A deep roar turned his gaze north, beyond the red mist-engulfed grove. So the battle would begin shortly. The ground rumbled and the air cracked with the ferocity of the approach, and first one, then a second snout dipped through the darkening clouds. Cyric sighed, watching the majestic dragons spiral lower, sleek red necks following their serpentine heads, massive wings stretched out for their silent approach. They were beautiful, but another roar pulled his gaze higher, where the clouds themselves began to descend. He couldn\'t even begin to count them, as the clouds churned red and parted, leaving only despair...
Cyric had known no greater terror. The furious anthem of a thousand cries wouldn\'t cut it when compared to the unleashing of this dragon fire. As soon as the first dragon swooped and bellowed its deadly cry, a dozen more dragons followed, their killing breath rending the ground, tearing up entire chunks of stone and dirt, and melting it in mid air. Dozens more followed, and with each blast the heat grew, and with each blast a rain of glass followed.
The grove, no grove for that matter, magic or not, could withstand it. Entire trees disintegrated in single blasts, and the ground sunk more and more, only a lake of glass left behind in the newly formed crater. Even the ridge they had first retreated to began to melt, trails of glass running down to join the rest...
Where the grove had been, the red mist still sat. If anything it had grown under the fierce attack, and was beginning to take shape. The lightning cutting through it intensified as the second wave of dragons approached, and then in one flash, lit the sky up. Cyric watched in awe as several of the dragons plummeted, twisted bodies smoldering ruins. The rest of the wave turned away, save for a foolish few.
“Cyric! We need to wake!”
From the red mist two great wings unfolded, each wing the length of one of the red dragons, from snout to tail. It wasn\'t until the twin heads of the behemoth beast rose up out of the mist that Cyric could identify it for the true horror it was. The fiend tore out of the mist as the few foolish dragons swooped down, one arm snapping out and catching a dragon in its claws, its second arm slashing a second out of the way. It was as long as the largest of the red dragons, and half again so, and when its wide blade-like tail cracked as it rushed through the group, two dragons fell, both cleaved in half...
“Cyric! Wake up!”
The prelude to insanity... the end of the world...
“Not the end of the world. A welcome home.”[/i]
Cyric’s first thoughts were of confusion. It took him several moments to realize that he was in a bed, and that the ceiling above him was painted a mundane white. The cloth over him was light, like silk, and he threw it off as if blowing leaves in the wind. The floor was soft, a thick carpet of pale blue. Where was he? Who was he... Cyric Lorne, the paladin, the champion field commander of Darkwatch. But who was he really? Two minds within the same skull, an oath to the light and a voice in the dark. Who was Cyric? When he opened that plain oak door to the unknown beyond, clothed only in a thick cotton robe, would he be a paladin of Darkwatch, or would he be-
“Cyric! Why are you up? Sir, your wounds, you’ll open them again!”
The strange voice was feminine, and came from a now vacant chair by his bed. His bed? Yes, this was his room. They were in Demiderus, the capital city. The girl was now standing at his side, pulling him back towards the bed. His servant? No. One of his paladins. Elena, or something of the like. “My wounds will heal. Give me a report.”
“Sir, please, at least sit down.” The girl continued as Cyric heaved a painful sigh and sat on the edge of his bed. “We found you a few miles out, dragging yourself towards the capital. If anyone can tell us what happened, it’s you. We haven‘t seen you for three years! Not one report or message from you. Where‘s the dwarf, Jarek? And the sword of Ronus? Did you destroy it, like Lord Eschire ordered you to? Your allies came back and told us about the mess they left behind, but there was no word on what happened to you!”
A few miles out? Three years... Had he been wandering for that long? “I’ll make my report directly to the Lord Captain. Bring me to him.” Cyric silenced the girls’ complaints with a grimace, and stood. His wounds weren’t too painful for him to move about freely. It wasn’t that any of them were too severe, Darkwatch clerics would have seen to those. It was that there were so many. The fight with Zyrden had left him in a puddle of his own blood. How had he dragged himself away? He should have died there on the spot. As soon as Cyric realized that the paladin was still silent and unmoving, Cyric glanced over.
“Lord Eschire isn’t in Demiderus. Sir, we’re in the midst of a war. You must have noticed. Where have you been these past years? He left orders for you anyways. You can’t go riding out to meet him. You have to tell us if the sword’s been destroyed.”
“It hasn’t.”
The girl was aghast. “You say it so casually! Surely Lord Eschire told you what the sword is capable of? Sir? Are you listen-”
Brought me back...
“Brought us back. The lich brought you back with Dal’Fal.”The Sword of Slaughter... We’re one with the Sword of Slaughter...
“Sir! You have new men, we already have everything organized, incase you brought us this news! As soon as you’re healed, you’ll ride out again. You have to complete your mission! Lord Eschire selected you for a reason!”
The girl was running short on breath from shouting so much, and Cyric quickly moved to take advantage of that. “Why not now? Where are they. They are here, in Demiderus? You said you were ready, so I’ll assume you’ve kept them on active duty. Who are they, paladins? Mercenaries?” Steady strides carrying him to the door, Cyric ignored the renewed complaints and pushed out into the hallway. The place looked deserted. Usually there’d be servants running back and forth, guards patrolling, paladins rushing to carry out orders, to bring back reports, and so much more. As Cyric watched, a single guard turned the far corner, disappearing out of sight. “This place is dead. The war must be serious. Goblin uprisings again?” Cyric glanced at the paladin.
“No sir. The goblins are hiding, deep in their caves.”
Cyric raised an eyebrow. “Then who are we fighting. Rebels? Demons from the north? Pirates from the Eastern coasts?” The dead the Sword brought back to life? Cyric decided to keep that one to himself. If that was truly the case, then the rest of Cyric’s nightmares were real as well. The dark elves had summoned an abomination to sweep the dragons out of the land... simply to make room to gather their armies safely. An army called by the Sword. An army of the dead.
Cyric kept on walking, eyes blind to the desolation around him as the paladin unveiled the nature of the current war. His fears were confirmed. His nightmares were confirmed. The voice in his head wasn’t his imagination, it was him. They were one now, one man, one demon. Two sides of the same sword.
The paladin left Cyric to call together his new allies, so he stood silently in the corner of the conference hall. Red tapestries were blank scrolls to him, the carvings on the table mere scratches. The smooth stones that lined the walls and floors were ugly abominations, ripped untimely from the ground. His life was a hell of its own creation, and he would strike a fear colder than any demon’s blade into the hearts of his enemies. And if need be, the hearts of his allies. If he was truly one with Dal’Fal now, then he would set the world on fire to hunt it down. To put it into the right hands. His own.
(feel free to jump in, mercenary, soldier or paladin on Darkwatch, random enlisted person, whatever works, just send me a note to get the character approved)