Open Chronicles King of Kings

[Amankh Kaltar]

Amankh stood unwavering as the cacophonous roar echoed throughout the hall and as the deceiver before him laughed. His return to his throne only served to reinforce Amankh's doubts on the truth of his statements. To watch on the sidelines was to allow defeat for your people.

A figure dropped down, clad in robes and a mask of gold, as those of the Bronze Claw swarmed the hall in defense of their King. Violet orbs watched them with a dull interest, a calm demeanor for one seemingly outnumbered. The one who bore a gilded mask slowly slipped off their robes, revealing a torso scarred and burned, an inner fire sparking to life within his wounds and his breath. Suddenly, a surge of flame surged outward, billowing out of his golden mask like the breath of a dragon.

Quickly, Amankh raised his hand, the bone being enveloped in a layer of thick, sculpted ice. As the fire pushed forward, the skeletal arm shot out. Sculptures of ice suddenly jutted out, emanating from the Archmage in a semi-circle. Jagged spikes met the newly formed line of mercenaries, some piercing skin and armor while others merely threatened to. Ice covered the floor of the hall, a pillar manifesting in front of Amankh to defend against the breath of flame. Fire from the pyromancer buffeted the ice, both unyielding in their persistence. As embers melted frost, frost surged back with newfound life.

His mind was brought back to his battle with Imamu, recalling the strength of his pyromancy. It almost seemed comparable, despite one being a deity and the other being a mere mortal. Whoever was behind that mask was someone to not underestimate, no doubt.

As he focused on maintaining the ice despite the torrent of fire, he didn't notice the serpentine chains of shadow crawling closer and closer. As they grazed his bone, he felt a creeping cold that seemed to bypass the material and instead strike the soul. It was a familiar cold, one he had not felt in many years, ever since his death. The ethereal cold drew closer and closer, threatening to envelop his body in its embrace.

He tore his hand away from the other encroaching chain, dispelling the other with a flurry of magic. Still, one remained on his wrist, the ethereal restraint holding it in place. He kept his remaining hand on the pillar of ice, continuing to maintain it, his vision flitting between this world and the ethereal realm intermittently.

From the doorway, figures could be seen pushing through, slipping past the opening left by Sathirena. A few of his disciples moved to his side, spotting the chain that restrained one of his arms. They moved to defend him, wards appearing at their skeletal fingertips, in an effort to defend themselves as undead warriors began to stream in after them.

 

[Gerra]

As the audience hall descended into violence, some stood their ground, some fled, and some simply watched from the sidelines.

Gerra, behind the protective curtain of bodies formed by the Bronze Claws, held his arms out to either side. Armor-bearers rushed forward and girded him in lamellar gilded in gold. Mago followed them, holding a strange mace, the head of which seemed to glow with some red, inner light.

“The Scepter of Kings, Djinn, recovered from the royal armory.”

Gerra wrapped fingers around the weapon’s hilt, admiring the craftsmanship, and hefted the weapon.

“Many thanks, Mago, now go and rally the rest of the Kaliti. We will defeat these undead, just as we did in Annuakat.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The Emperor of Amol-Kalit now turned back to his assembling foes, mace in his right hand, burnished shield in his left, clad in the raiment of war.

 

[T’suris Flameblade]

A shiver ran down T'suris's spine at the roar of the dragon that had nothing to do with the shattering of glass or windows around them.

"This is why we don't deal with the unscaled ones," T'suris's companion hissed, "They have taken one of our Grandfathers and enslaved them." For surely no dragon would stoop to following a human or an elf. Surely.

"Then let's free Grandfather," T'suris said just as a figure dropped into the audience hall, fire erupting from his golden mask. Perfect - a distraction. T'suris ran in the opposite direction as more undead came into the halls, barely avoiding spears of ice from the archmage. He clawed one disciple down, rushing to get to the other side of the Archmage's frozen shield.

His chest heaved and acid sizzled through the air, flying towards the undead prophet. Without skipping a beat, he turned towards the other undead, a flurry of claws and tail and horns.

 

[Sathirena]

The mighty beast backed off from the gate as the undead soldiers swarmed its way in, stepping deeper into the courtyard.
As the divine storm raged on, whoever was in the open has since fled to safety within their villas and homes. Oblivious as to what might be happening, other than the world has gone upside down and a harrowing cry of a beast called from the outside.
Was today not a day of celebration?


Very well then. Sathirena refrained blasting the place in frost when so many of the Eternum were within.
A single claw gripped the dome of the throne room while standing on her back legs, The great head shifting left and right. Nothing was seen, all was sand and snow as during the thickest of blizzards, and yet her eyes were wide open... staring into the dance of white and red.

A mimick of inhalation has been performed before the dragon began to spew red ice over the palace. Encrusting the top levels in thick sheets of frost before scaling over the building itself and freezing the sides and eventual back untill all was but a crystalline prison.
Lastly, the tail of the beast slithered past the top levels, still skin as it was once alive, but it was wet and covered in snow and sand like the rest of the dragon. It swiped across the top levels like a pendulum.


Those inside could hear a tremble as the beast shifted its place. The very windows that kept the blizzard outside, were sealed once more in thick sheets of ice interwoven in sand. Whoever stood close by them has been kissed by frost and encased as well.

 

[Traecon Maxwell]

He breathed once. Twice. The air misted off from his mouth as he took in the sudden frigid air surrounding the palace. A sudden attack during the coronation? Now?

Ah, crabapples. He had just managed to work off his morning aches from sleep. The metal that was his arm was getting... restless for a term ever since the battle too. He didn't know just what the hell was up with the darn thing nowdays. He would find out once the King gave him leave, and head towards the farthest reaches of the desert.

He had stood at the sidelines as the whole crowning event went to hell, undead literally everywhere as they attacked the King. Again. He wasn't to use Dreamsbane so soon after the battle, else the exhaustion hit harder than before. He would need the strength for travel, away from the kingdom.

This was Amol Kalit all over again.

With his trusty dagger, he slid away to pick off what undead he could find.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene perked an eyebrow as the Audience Hall below burst into a flurry of violence and magics.

The Dreadlord took a single step back as a flurry of cold and heat passed over the collumns that separated the high up waiting chamber from the Hall below.

A few gasps ran through the gathered Emissaries, though at least one man(Aratus Seldomus) leaned back in his seat and watched as though he were observing a gladiatorial match. Selene leaned forward, eyes flickering between the man of flames and the undead that had disturbed Gerra's coronation.

Her face tightened.

A decision lay before her.

She could stay and simply watch, she could assist Gerra, or she could fell this new King of Kings. Her lips pursed in consideration, her thoughts only interrupted when the building suddenly shook. She glanced behind her just in time to see a window covered in crystalline frost.

The Dreadlord sighed, glancing back down to the Audience Hall as undeath swarmed those below. Her fingers tightened, and she felt as though her decision was slowly being made for her.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Everything happened so fast.

The Bronze Claw, Telenar seemingly shifting through planes of reality, Amankh's exemplary use of ice magic. It was a technicolour showdown of magical might and excellence, the likes of which are rarely seen anywhere. To think some of the greatest Sorcerers living in that room was quite extraordinary. He almost felt honoured.

But then, the cold hit. They all felt the gentle shift of the audience hall as it was coated in hard-frost. Very few things in Arethil could produce such a massive frost in such a small space of time. Then again, he'd heard the Eternum had a-

Oh dear.

No escape.

There was no one in that room that could melt through frost that thick. Even a masterful Pyromancer would struggle against it, almost crystalline in it's formation. He'd heard about Dragons being able to make use of frost-breath, and how it created ice which broke like steel; nigh impenetrable.

Sigh.

He let off his assault on Amankh, the fire ceasing to plume from his mouth. He looked up towards the ceiling, made out of fanciful and rare woods and stones. Dammit. He knew that if he was hit by a dragon's flame, his mask wouldn't be immune to it's heat, and would melt to his face. He couldn't risk wearing it, and killing himself in the process. He grabbed it, and wrenched it violently from his face, throwing it across the room towards the ensuing chaos. His face had been repaired ever so slightly by the Priests, but it was still a wretched, distorted, burnt shadow of Maho Sparhawk.

He bent to his knees, looking towards the floor, spoke some quiet words, and a small, stone dome covered him, a technique he'd seen used by Selene. A useful one indeed. He began to rapidly heat it's exterior, the outside quickly becoming molten hot. He again mumbled a word, and the dome separated from the ground it had arisen from, floating slightly off of the ground, still surrounding him.

He focused his magic into the lower half of his body, rune-ing an area around his feet. The markings glowed blue, and soon dissipated, cloaking his legs in an ethereal colour.

Here goes.

He bent his knees, and as he stood up, a powerful explosion thundered from his feet, as he - and the dome he'd covered himself with - soared towards the ceiling at maximum velocity. It almost felt like flying. As he impacted with the ceiling, the hard-stone dome ripped through it, soon coming into contact with the icy-cold. Sparhawk quickly raised his arms as he flew, a hot-bolt of fire springing from his hands, shattering through the beautifully clear ice that covered the hall.

Soon, he was high above the hall, perhaps 50 metres in the air, when he saw it.

Possibly the largest and mightiest dragon he had ever seen; black scaled ran over beautiful blue hide, wings that seemed to span miles, horns to match. He was almost over-come with joy, seeing such an incredible creature, in such a vivid colour.

Wait, what do I do now?!

He hadn't planned that far, as he hung high in the air, slowly beginning to come down. In a desperate move, he raised his legs in the opposite direction to the beast, and - using the residue energy left over from the fire burst - create another, smaller, explosion, sending him flying towards the beast. He had a massive grin spread across his face. What an experience!

He threw his hands forward, hoping to hold onto something once he made impact.

 

[Infernal]

In this world, this shifting tide of souls and spirits, Telenar felt the barometric pressures of their magics, clashing like waves in the ocean. Both had powers of great magnitude, but Amankh was bolstered by his followers, whereas Telenar's were off somewhere just as important...

Within the shadowy places of the besieged city, hidden in the darkness and bricks, the Shadow Hands did not sit idle. In huddled prayer they performed the ritual, their magics weaving together the strands of Arcane power that snaked their way into the city. They thought them defenseless, weak and foolhardy, but they would see very soon the folly of underestimating them.

Meanwhile, in the spirit plane, Telenar would not relent in his assault on the necromancer. Sickly green tendrils drained the life force of some of the acolytes, feeding him the power he needed to summon more of the chains to wrap themselves around his opponent. Amankh would be his, for while he remained a staunch obstacle, the knowledge and lore he held was invaluable to the elf.

Surrender yourself. You know this to be a futile battle. Give yourself to me, and I will show you mercy.

 

[Selene Avar]

A golden mask tumbled to the floor, and shock painted Selene's face.

The visage beneath the mask had not been one she expected in a thousand years. There was more than a stroke of familiarity to it, even with the slight changes since she had last seen the man; Maho Sparhawk.

She had called him Professor then.

An agent of Elbion, working for the College to close relations with Vel Anir. She had heard him speak of battle, had heard him recount tales of his past and what he had done. She had believed him, but to see him here?

The Dreadlord did not understand. The man had visited her as a Professor of Elbion less than six months before. He had been jovial, a man who had put battle behind himself. Now he stood here, among the court of Gerra.

Her lips thinned as she watched the man move, and then disappear.

Had he lied to her? Had he been an agent of Gerra all along?

Had he fooled her?

Seething rage bubbled along the surface of her core, fingers tightening, eyes flashing a bright red as her anger ran wild. She did not like being made a fool. She did not like being tricked.

Selene would get to the bottom of these lies.

 

[Halul]

With the dragon leaving the hall and clambering atop the dome, Uvogin found himself with no task. A battle between those alive and not raged below and a bitter cold spread through the hall's interior. He leaned over the balcony from above, scanning the ground level to find his own place in the battle.

The mercenary threw himself over the balcony, landing with a heavy thud. He quickly stood and rushed to the middle of the hall, where the one called Amankh stood. He effortlessly slipped through the ongoing battle and began to approach the undead sorcerer's backside.

Hoping the intruder was too occupied with the newly named Vizier-of-Scrolls to notice, Uvogin gripped the middle of his sword with his free hand and thrust the point of his sword out toward's the undead's skull.

 

[Ashuanar]

He recoiled as a great spire of ice shot toward him, ducking to the side to have it pass alongside him. He shuffled that way and came back upright – fixated on the dragon. He watched it carefully as its head withdrew to allow swaths of undead to rush into the hall.

“Ashuanar!” It was one of his own.

He and a handful of the others beckoned to him, gathered together gesturing to the stranger – the undead ice wizard, or whatever he was. They seemed… compelled toward him. Their faith had been shaken, the familiar image of the intruder too tempting a comfort.

He turned away, and dashed for the stairwell behind. He would deal with the traitors soon enough, if they weren't devoured alive. Hopefully his actions and those few of his kin who stayed loyal would save his tribe the punishment that would undoubtedly be brought upon them for their transgression. He bound for the upper level, evading the conflict entirely.

The dragon still slid itself atop the dome, its body still covering some blown out windows. He drew near, the tail all he could now see swinging back and forth, growing slimmer as she climbed.

The crunch of glass beneath his feet.

He leapt.

He dove through the window as tightly as a pin, and then sprawled himself wide for dear life. The great tail swung back again, and he grasped at it, frantically. He slid down. His hand firmly grasped at one of her many frills, then he grabbed another. With each sway of her he held on tightly, moving his way up as quickly as he could.

The fear of falling gripped him.

He climbed nevertheless, battling the fear and the sudden rush of cold from beneath them as she chilled the entire hall with her terrible frost. She hadn’t yet noticed him, likely to her nothing more than like a fly on his arm.

Then, almost as quickly as she had encased the dome did the top of it blow open, and the great fire mage of the Sarmatsar appeared – grotesque as he was, he was a very welcome sight. And hopefully a further distraction.
He moved as carefully as he could to not lose his grip or footing upon her scales, relying only on her preoccupation with other things and her relatively docile movements to be his best chance. If she were to notice him then…

…that would be bad.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

A dragon, angry wizards.

Vengeful has-beens.

Pissed off people all over the place. And now- the undead. Undead hordes.

Such an interesting place, this was.

The undead approached Aratus, who had not ventured from his seat. Aratus was not armed, coming as an emissary of Thelios. Thelios above all, was coming as friends, or trading partners, interested in the continual beneficial relationship with their neighbors.

The undead warriors made a swing for Aratus. Aratus tapped his foot once, and pivoted from his seat. And then, using the seat as a weapon, crushed the undead's skull with one fell swoop. Decaying tissue and muscles and no protection from blunt force trauma- Aratus shattered the undead's skull inside of it's primitive, rusted helmet.

Aratus was wearing a skirt and ceremonial armor, vambraces made from steel- and was better suited to war than most in the audience hall. More undead approached him, and all Aratus did, was crack his knuckles and smile.

The undead didn't stand a chance in hell against the Athallian.

 

[Achates]

Clothing of silk and ribbon adorned her frame, shoes made of the softest and finest leather covered her feet. The soles pounced against the ground as she followed the groups, Gerra's scent leading her. The wolf like traits she was born with that showed even in her humanoid form helped in situations like this. She knew the half giants scent better than anyone and she followed it.

Reaching up, she gripped one of the buildings and used her lithe frame to climb above what was happening. Her footsteps suddenly became quiet as she stalked the rooftops. Something wasn't right and with her having had been a bit farther back of the crowd she wasn't able to fully grasp what and who Gerra was speaking too.

Finding an opening she was able to crawl through, she was close as the voice of her King booming. There was another voice and she fell through the ceiling and landed close, near her allies.

Undead, she could smell them now that her focus was free to look elsewhere. Instinct took over as bit down and felt her frame crunch and bones broke reforming, growing into the large black dire wolf. Achates fell onto her hands that had become large paws the size of shields and a loud howl echoed.

The wolf stepped forward, tatters of what she was wearing hung off her six foot tall frame, teeth bared as she growled protectively awaiting a command.

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

As flame and ice shifted throughout the room, a tumultuous battle all of its own, Amankh's eyes pierced the chaos to watch the gilded pyromancer. At last, the dragon's breath of fire ceased, leaving behind a landscape of ash-covered cold in its wake. The mask tumbled against the floor, the sound of its fall curtly masked by the sound of war.

Behind the golden visage was a scarred and burned face. A face that belonged to a man he thought had changed. A man whose flames he had faced before, cast by another. Maho Sparhawk. The cycle had turned once more, and the result seemed to be the same. A weapon turned to teacher, returning to his status as a weapon for another. Recognition, surprise, and disappointment all merged to one in his skeletal expression.

He cast the reaction aside as he saw Gerra come forward, now adorned in royal armor with weapons in hand. Amankh's soldiers continued to stream the hall, ready to defend their chosen from those who challenged him. From his mages shot forth streams and waves of magic, billowing outwards towards Gerra's forces like a united monsoon. Spears of ice left his hands, spiraling in the air as they aimed for the half-giant.

As they fought, however, he felt the lingering cold aura of the chains once more. To his side, mages began to crumble to sand and dust, as the lifeforce which tied their body together began to unravel at the seams. His students, undead he had taught since they had first set sail across the sea. He had been the one to hone their potential, to allow them to harness what they could not do in life. They were promising. They reminded him of his life, as he oversaw the mages of the Old Empire. They were just as bright, and just as easily extinguished.

Amankh's breath left him; a plume of white mist, stark against the sandstone of the hall. A wave of cold anger thrummed within his bones, threatening to overflow... until it did. A yell echoed throughout the hall, amplified through sheer force, bloodcurdling in its intensity. Winter seemed to invade the room in an instant, a raging snowstorm breaching the open windows. The air grew thick with snow, flurries of sharp ice quickly surging within the chamber. The chains were cut down as they grew close to his form, unable to latch on.

As Uvogin attempted to pierce the skull of Amankh, a sudden force seemed to pull the blade back. A mage, golden runes igniting with light in the air at his fingertips. The undead thrust his hands to the side, the sword following the movement. Undead warriors began to step in, facing the frowning mercenary with swords and shields drawn.

 

[Gerra]

A howl sounded nearby and Gerra turned to see a large, black dire wolf.

"Achates, with me. We will end this now."

Long, implacable strides carried him through the huddled mass of his bodyguards. He held his shield before him, polished to an impossibly bright and reflective sheen.

An undead warrior charged at him, but Gerra smote him low with a single blow of his mace. Sparks flew from the point of impact and the sharp crack of breaking bones rose to join the rest of the cacophony amid the din of battle.

A blast of frigid air filled the room as Amankh let out a scream of ice. Flakes of snow flooded in and Gerra turned, eyes blazing, toward his cabal of sorcerers.

"Snaaib,"

The Archlector looked impossibly calm, though his white robes were buffeted by the freezing wind. He bowed at the waist to Gerra, then with the rest of the Archlectors began to chant.

Only snippets of their words could be heard, but the names of Iasimu and Annuk were foremost among them, a prayer to the goddess of storms and the god of conquest. The snow upon the ground began to steam, the temperature rising slowly at first, then picking up the pace until it became as hot as a sauna, centered around Gerra.

Wherever he strode, snow within five meters melted and turned to steam. From outside the palace dome, Gerra could hear the roar of the dragon.

"Achates, the serpent. Help Jerik."

Attention refocused on the lich, Gerra approached, gleaming shield held before him, steam rising all around him. The eight foot half-giant swung the glowing mace for the lich's shoulder.

He did not know if a blow to the head would kill it. So instead, he would hack it apart until it could no longer be a thorn in his side.

Then Telenar could study the pieces.

 

[T’suris Flameblade]

Claws slashed at undead necks, severing heads from spines. Horns speared through their chests, Tails severed torsos in half. Undead poured through the gate torn asunder by the powerful ice dragon. Dread pooled in his belly. Even in death, how could his mighty ancestor align herself with such filth? The dead were supposed to stay dead.

Freezing wind whipped his hair about his face. He must free her from the wicked entrapment of undeath.

Chaos rained, bricks falling from the ceiling as a dome exploded into the sky, snow and sand whipping about in the wind, simultaneously freezing and blinding. Without thought, The Komodo dashed towards the dragon's mighty tail, claws tearing the faces of the undead out of his path, coagulated blood spewing around him.

A shadow passed overhead. Navy eyes looked up and narrowed. A figure flew through the air - towards the mighty beast he sought. Shaking off an undead that had crawled onto his back, T'suris leapt to the outside of the hall, climbing quickly up the side of the dome. Claws dug into smooth stone, gripping ledges and grouted seams. Hand over hand he climbed, narrowly avoiding the great mother's sweeping tail. He blinked at the sight of Ashuanar gripping the dehydrated tail of the great dragon. On he climbed, avoiding her deadly claws and her deathly breath.

"Grandmother!" he cried, clinging to unstable stone beneath is feet, "Stop this!"

 

[Magnan Smithson]

In the midst of the chaotic battle, as giants marched, a dragon roared and magic was hurled left and right as the living and dead fought, the world seemed to quieten. Colour drained from everything, as alien whispers filled the minds of all around. Those who had seen the other side and experienced pandemonium would find them familiar, but it was only those who had been there at the defeat of a God that would know for certain what it was. The frosted air darkened as specks of shimmering blue light flickered through it, before disappearing into nothingness. Loud, thundering footfalls echoed out from the darkness, almost as if shaking the ground as the room continued to darken, and from the mist it came.

Tendrils of dark flame, flecked blue and purple, burst forth from the mist in a silent roar. They swept through the room, avoiding the undead as they sought out any and all magic they could find. They swirled at where the dark spirit shackles would be, their very presence corrupting the spirit world around Telenar and Amankh even as they swept towards the large wolf , before even more sped towards where an old enemy fought the colossal beast above. All the while, the footsteps only grew louder and more tangible. A figure could now be seen, shadowy but unmistakable to those who knew what they were looking for. For a moment the footsteps stopped...

Before Magnasandree burst out of the shadows, cloak aflame in unholy hellfire and with their weapons clasped in each hand. "Move." They say, their sword arm reaching out to backhand Uvogin with enough force to lift him from his feet as they don't even break stride, striding towards Amankh in time with the approaching flame giant. A titanic clang echoes out through the halls as their shield intercepts Gerra's hammer swing towards their Archmage. They stare up at Gerra, as Magnan notices a spark of familiarity about this one. From a time he had almost forgotten... And a time that wasn't important now, as they looked up towards Gerra and moved forward to cover the Eternum's archmage even more, large frame dwarfing the tall Lich.

"You stand before the leaders of the Eternum, the slayers of Gods and Dragons, the founders of nations, the creators of armies. You stand before Magnan and Eilasandree." They level their sword towards the supposed King of Kings, even though they were addressing all who could hear them. "And we will hear you plead, or we will watch you die."

 

[Zufar el Hassan]

'...Festive time indeed...' The good captain thought as he peered through his spyglass at the chaos unfolding within the palace. Zufar was truly impressed; It had barely been an hour since the new "King of Kings" had been crowned, and there were already undead soldiers invading the thrown room(not to mention a really angry, giant, ice dragon) trying to dethrone him.

Ah, but maybe they'd fight it off...afterall, it was never about what happened in regime that people remembered...but it was how you dealt with it...though somthing might be said about the frequency of these events...

Now, this would have been a fantastic time for Zufar to make his withdraw from the scene, as the combined sand and frost storm began to cloud the vision through his spyglass. The captain had another mission here that had nothing to do with all of this, somthing that needed him to keep a low profile. But strangely enough...the captain was a bit invested in this entire affair. Not in the "noble" or "loyalty" sense, but more like how one would be invested in characters in a story. This was pure entertainment material right here...perhaps someone would write a play about it one day.

Besides, it had been a fairly long time since the captain had done somthing truly reckless.

"Let's get a move on..." Zufar said out-loud, as he patted the rug underneath him, before bringing up his scarf the mask his face. At least he could keep incognito for the time being. Within the next secound, the man had pushed himself off the ledge he had rested upon, diving head first towards the ground. Yet mere meters from the ground, a blurred shadow caught up to the Captain, in a way catching him. It had been his carpet, a flying carpet at that, that prevented Zufar from splattering himself all over the ground, Instead, the man used his momentum to bring his carpet upwards, zooming forward at great speed.

The winds outside had been strong and visibility had become increasingly poor, but Zufar had navigated worse upon the high seas. Even still, the wind had manage to blow the two off track, as the ended up on the side of the building rather then the entrance.

Even in the sandstorm, he could make out the massive dragon perched up top. Quiet impressive to have a dragon after you so early on...that, and having people by your side brave/stupid enough to try to climb it...though Zufar was no better at the moment...

Ooooh, half broken masked magic user spewing fire? 10 points to the new regime!

As the battle above raged on, Zufar kept his ducked into his carpet, as both man and object plunged into one of the broken ceiling on the top of the building, evading the sight lines of those whom just exited the building. As the descended, the carpet rolled in midair, catapulting Zufar off it and sending him towards one of the interior pillars, to which the Captain was able to catch himself onto.

Peering over the side of the pillar, this coronation had turned into the very definition of chaos. Those whom were alive fighting those who weren't. There was the big new Emperor, a wolf by his side...though it didn't appear to be any sort of desert wolf, none that Zufar knew of at least...both were charging what he'd assume was the challenger of the throne; a lich priest of sorts. It was always seemed to be a lich priest that became the lich pin of any regime such as this. The ambition or arrogance of some extended past their lifetime, and the lich priests managed to find away to transcend their physical bodies to accomplish that.

Quite the spectacle it all was, and it had only had been the beginning of his reign! Certainly among Zufar 's top 3 coronations. Wonder what his first assassination attempt would be if the bar had been set this high?...

Then, things got even more interesting. Another skeleton seemingly appeared out of now where! And he had narrowly blocked a swing from crown boy. Frost vs fire. living vs unliving; the duality was quite the nice touch. You could not see him, but if one would listen closely, they'd be able to hear a faint cackling in the background. This was just too funny for Zufar. Another challenger! All within the same hour, this was too much!

Ah, but with a name such as "King of Kings", you were practically asking for it...Maybe the masked Zufar should throw his hat into the ring, just for a good laugh...

 

[Halul]

First, the point of the mercenary’s blade was jerked aside by some unnatural force. Then, a mob of the undead was set upon him. They were much slower, much clumsier than the lethal mercenary. One by one, the unholy beings were dispatched.

The distance grew between Uvogin and his target. That distance exponentially grew as the mercenary was lifted into the air, above the heads of the undead that he had just been cutting down moments ago.

He hadn’t felt what happened to him. He couldn’t comprehend what had made him leave his feet. Then, while soaring across the great hall, pain set into his side. Sharp, stabbing pain. Without a doubt, he had several broken ribs. With a heavy thud, he landed back on the ground several feet from where he was struck. Following his reunion with the hard floor, he slid several more feet until the base if a pillar halted his momentum.

Uvogin laid there for a moment, defeated and utterly confused. Using the column to support his weight, he clambered to his feet and looked at the chaos unfolding within the hall.

Each breath was met with a severe pain in his left side. He rested against the column and watched as Gerra faced down what had struck him.

He felt exceptionally small as powerful magic and unnatural beings battled within the grand hall.

“Ridiculous,” Uvogin spat, and pushed himself off the pillar, prepared to once again immerse himself into the battle.

 

[Sathirena]

Something shot through the roof, grabbing the dragon's attention. Her face unglued from the window line to point at the aerial disturbance.
A small speck now 'flying' towards her. There were many ways to deal with this, and the battle inside was more important one or more mere mortals. They were just pawns. Casualty at the end of the day. She didn't even notice the elf, climbing up her backside

She rose her right foreleg and swiped across the air, trying to grab him.

Yet a small voice called out towards her. And it called unexpectedly. Grandmother?
She peered downwards, wether she captured the flying speck or not. It was a Komodo, reaching for attention.
Sathirena, the great blue lowered her head towards him.
»Child, I am busy, « her voice was deep and rubling. It was colossal.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

As he flew at seemingly blinding speeds towards the colossal Dragon, the joy written on his face was undeniable. It was in moments like these when, despite what he'd done, despite what he was going to do, he couldn't deny that he had never felt so Alive.

But as the beast stared him down, it turned to something on it's leg.

MY CHANCE!

Surprised by the fact he wasn't submerged in hell-flame or frost greatly surprised him. At this moment, he didn't know what to feel. Surrounded by some of the most influential figures in Arethil, in all of the world, conquering nations and bringing armies to their feet with sheer power. He felt he should say something, if not only to share his immense joy with the world, as he was about to plant himself face-first into the Dragon.

As his expression turned to focussed excitement, he cracked a shout, with all his might;

"I AM MAHO SPARHAWK! AND I LIVEEE-" He screamed, seemingly with a voice not even he was familiar to.

He was interrupted however, as he landed face-first into the Dragons hard, scaled hide. If it weren't for his soft-fall spell, and the rocky dome around his head, he surely would have broken every bone in his body. His arms lurched out in haste, grabbing for the horns on the Beasts upper-neck.

All he could do is laugh at the top of his lungs, his rocky-hands holding on for dear life. The Eternum, Gerra, all those in that audience hall; it was as if this was the crossroads of his life, the ultimate climax to all of his decisions.

But for now, all that seemed trivial, as he did something that brought him more delight than almost anything he had experienced before,

Latching onto the back of a Dragon.

 

[Selene Avar]

Ice melted as it attempted to reach her, the burst of cold from the Lich being enough to even reach the platform of Emissaries.

The situation had devolved further now, a fact that she would have thought impossible even a few moments ago. Her lips thinned as she stared down into the Audience Hall below, her head shifting towards the smiling man who had now joined the fray against the undead.

Necromancy was not a common practice in Vel Anir. Dreadlords of course practiced it's art in some capacity, though the fact that they did was a deeply held secret by the City itself.

Most commoners would have detested knowing that their fallen Sons and Daughters would be raised from death during battle. The idea was insulting even without the presence of Religion within Vel Anir. Many believed the dead should stay dead.

Selene didn't particularly care one way or the other, but she knew an opportunity when she saw one.

The marching dead to the North of Vel Anir was not something she, or the Great Houses, could ever allow. Gerra though? Gerra was a known quantity.

His agent may have fooled her, there may have been some trick she could not understand, but Selene thought it best to pick the demon she knew. A sigh escaped her, breath hot as she shook her head and made a decision.

She took a short few steps back, and then burst into a sprint.

Flame burst from her feet at the end of the last step, and with it she went bounding from the Emissaries Platform. She soared through the air for a brief moment, landing in a tucked roll far behind The Lich and his newly arrived Knight.

 

[Infernal]

The burst of ice magic was noticed easily enough, Telenar thought as he raised a barrier to protect himself from the oncoming onslaught of ice. Everything was coming together, and he wasn't going to allow the new intruder to break away his attempts at keeping Amankh preoccupied. Now at least, he knew what provoked him.

You have grown weak, Chosen One. Everyone around you will suffer for your failure!

When he said Chosen One, he spoke with unrestrained disdain for him and his very existence. With the chains unable to make purchase, they instead ensnared the followers of the elven mummy, forcing them in place so that all they can do is scream as he chooses not to kill them, but to force them into pure suffering. On the physical plane, their silent mouths would be open wide in an unreadable visage, but here in the spirit plane, Telenar projected all the pain and anguish they felt in as much volume as he could, drowning out everything in their pain.

Feel their pain, Chosen One! This is all you will ever bring to your people!!

Meanwhile, the Shadow Hands were nearly finished with the ritual. The air was dense with magic, and the feeling of burning alcohol could be felt in one's throat as the ritual was nearing completion. With this spell, they were going to repel the invaders, and break their will to fight them ever again.

 

[Gerra]

The mace rebounded off the shield, spraying sparks and letting out such a peal of metal-on-metal that it rose even above the screams of the damned. Gerra’s eyes narrowed. He recognized that shield.

“Magnan,” he rumbled.

The horned knight stood proud, clad head to toe in burnished plate and coming nearly of a level in height with Gerra himself. When last they met, many of Gerra’s soldiers died. The memory stirred up the hot blood that ran through the half-giant’s veins until his eyes burned like hot coals.

The Son of Molthal’s grip tightened around the haft of his mace until his fingers ached as he heard Magnan’s pronouncement. An ugly snarl twisted his brooding lips and his ashen features grew black with rage.

They sought to take from him this new empire, on the very day of its foundation. And who were they, these wizened mummies, who clung to life after death? Nothing more than lingering cobwebs of a bygone era, their glory long past. That they sought to trouble the living with their failure - no.... That they sought to trouble him with their failures and foolish aspirations of grandeur invoked within him an unrelenting, unmitigated hatred like the eruption of a caldera giving vent.

When he spoke again it was in a voice so deep and quaking with wroth that it was as if a volcano was suddenly given voice.

“I stand before dead men,” rage dripped like magma from his lips.

“Climb back into your graves,” he brought back his mace and smote at Magnan with such hideous might that it would shatter wood, deform plate, or crumple shield.

CLANG

“Or be RETURNED.”

CLANG

Again and again he smote down upon Magnan, blows growing in ferocity as all around him faded into nothing, vision tunneling red with only the antlered knight left in focus. He struck as he would strike upon an anvil, hammering a red hot piece of unruly metal again and again until it molded into a shape of his pleasing.

CLANG CLANG CLANG

 

[Ashuanar]

In a short while Ashuanar's confidence grew, and soon developed a steady pace of climbing and compensating for the dragon's movements. A feeling began to swell in him, a level of uncertainty. He'd gotten himself onto the dragon but had no sure method of slaying it.

His best bet was the spine at the base of its skull – if he could pierce her scales perhaps he could bring down the beast. The polearm, strapped to his back. It wasn’t the ideal weapon for such a creature but he had to at least try.

Then, a great jostling as the dragon reached out with one of her forearms to swipe at Maho as he descended upon her. He was flung about, the movement nearly shaking him loose, but with two hands firmly gripped he held on, and his body fell back down against the dragons back and he let out a restrained oof.

He looked up, and saw Maho now hanging off of the dragons horns ahead of him. He caught his breath and continued his climb, persistent in reaching his goal, but there was still far to go - having only made it about half way up the dragon's back as of yet. He kept a lookout for any signal from the fire mage ahead.

Perhaps he had a better plan.