Legend Event On Hallow Ground [Halloween Mini Event - Ixmus Graveyard - TBS]

[Edward Lorain]

Edward continued moving through the corpses. His dagger snaked out only when necessary to deliver a blow. Instead, he let the violent winds whip around him serving as his own barrier of destruction.

The revenant continued closer and closer, but it had found a new target for the moment. Best to not gain its attention...but the longer the new target survived, the longer the revenant was kept busy.

The winds still craved violence, but by now, it was Edward's greed that was winning out. His eyes fell on the light and he knew he could be the fastest. The wind gathered at his back and propelled him into the air, launching Edward towards the light.

He did ask that some of the wind confront the revenant and try to slow it down, if only for a few seconds. That was all they could ask for.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

The sight of the Iron Revenant knocked some sense into Nere. Quite physically, as a mass of smoke and metal rained down upon her. With a quick step and a flash of runework she dodged, barely, summoning a plain round shield to redirect the pressure that crushed down from on top of her.

Sparks flew, metal on magicked metal. Nere winced as something in her arm twisted and popped out of place. The shield fell from her grasp. The thing was reassembling itself. An arm that seemed to be melded to its warhammer shifted and shorted, fattening with strength. Nere shrugged her shoulder and felt another snap of tendons. All that pain and only a glancing blow - if she got hit head on by this inhuman thing, she would be done for.

Others ran past her and the iron-sanded wrath. Allies, yes. They were alive, not wasted necromancers or undead puppets, merely other people pulled into the same hell as herself. Maybe they could get out of this. Together.

Letting out a terrible bellow, Nere summoned a hammer of her own and swung round to smash at an approaching zombie. The sinews in her arms burned in protest. The runes across her body fizzled and bled. She kicked another shambling corpse between herself and the Revenant, hoping to lose it in the river of battle.

"Forward!" she yelled out to anyone who was listening. "Into the maw! I'll hold the path!"

Soon enough, she would follow her own advice. If that hulking thing didn't flatten her first.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

The undead surrounded him, and with little other recourse, Kiros rushed into the fray with his staff was raised and words of magic shouted out. A bright burst of light illuminated all in an instantaneous flash. The undead foes formerly surrounding him were torched by the holy light, smouldering as they dropped lifelessly to the ground. It was a resource he could employ only once, but it served its use well. Further beyond was the woman he'd healed was further ahead, holding her ground against the hordes. She shouted to continue, and with a nod Kiros did exactly that. Within the skull were a pair of necromancers locked in battle, and above them a bright object swung suspended from the ceiling. Whatever it was, he felt he had to acquire it, and given Her insight, that was proof enough it was his objective.

“You have found it. Now hurry and take it!”

Itra gave confirmation he neither needed nor desired. But the glowing yellow object must be a means of escape from this hellish place, and that he did desire.

Before he could make effort to obtain it, a swirling hate could be felt, and the ground shook beneath his feet. The Iron Revenant came leaping forth for Nere, spurring Kiros forth in a bid to provide aid through a barrier of light. He rapped his staff against the ground to invoke the spell but the Luminant Curtain had no immediate effect. He didn't dare wait to confirm or attempt anew, lest She note the failure and smite him for it.

The necromancers seemed to be behind this, but he couldn't cast Immute to muddle their magic. With eyes on the others, he prepared to use the one tool he knew he had at his disposal. He gripped Heirahit in preparation, taking care not to adopt a hostile stance. Though he had nothing but hate for the necromancers. They were the reason he suffered the horrible quest. They had shown him his greatest horror, and they disturbed the spirits of the dead deserving of rest to fuel whatever petty squabble they had.

The spirits would surely thank him for splitting their skulls.

 

[Twisted Teller]

The Iron Revenant looms large before Nere, a hulk of malformed metals through which a haze of ashen iron swirls and sifts, ringing so much like sand rattling through an empty kettle come scrubbing day. Its metallic surface, porous with spikes, an impossible construct that bends the mind with its angles, all a conflict, as if its construction was at war with itself, its landscape ever-changing, as sand stuck here, and metal shaved there.

Eyeless, its head tracks the sailor, beset by so many shambling dead that poured in through the mouth of the leviathan's skull. The war wraith ambles forward. Slow steps turn to long bounding strides that eat up the ground that seperates them, its great hammer, now a malignant maul of iron, dragged behind it by by an oversized arm. It swings it forward, blows through the swath of dead that chase after the party. They scatter, flung through the air like so many sparks from blacksmith's strike. It pulls its hammer back once more, aiming to swing at Nere.

The pirate's dark wind howls against the revenant, buffeting its jagged form, then comes the curtain of Her Light, willed by the priest. Like a net, it wraps around the war wraith, slowing it to a crawl, it struggles forward through the screen of glittering holiness, it groans in agony, even so, its pain only seems to spur it further forward. Slowly, it trudges through the Luminant screen, hell bent on hammering Nere down like a nail.

In the skull proper, the hallowed hall where the necromancer's chant and sing and duel with twisted gestures and sightless eyes rolled back into their heads, their voices sound like legion. Echoes bounce countless times against the walls of the skull, and the yellow light, flickers like a maddening flame.

Lucky Edward sails high ino the wind, but one Necromancer's head snaps in his direction, his gnarled hand shoots out, his dark robes flair with malevolant wind. Just as the sea-dog reaches the golden object, so high upon the cieling, as Edward's fingers grab around the round helmet so full of power, the necromancer's hand shoots out, arm turned to unnatural tentacle. The necromancer's hand grabs Edward's ankle and the old death caller twists, whipping the sailor down from the cieling. The object of power flings free of his grasp, glittering with its wicked yellow light, it rattles against the cavern wall and falls to the floor.

"The helm!" the necromancer whose hand turned to horrid whip calls out, his white eyes turn to track the object. "The Helm of the Departed!" he wails out.

The other necromancer grins. "It shall be mine!" he calls out from beneath his shadowed cowl. "It shall be mine!!!"

A portion of the undead become aware of their master's desires, their putrid skulls track the object and they shamble towards it.

The helm bounces across the floor, and rolls toward Nere and the revenant.

Edward​

The winds, dark and violent as they were, heeded your call no more. You feel their power leave you in this perilous moment. You fear that they have left you for all time, your connection to Teth's ancient blood, so distant now, as thin as a line across the great sea.

Nere​

Rage boils in your veins. Fills your lungs. Fills your head. The voices. Countless voices. The voices bounce along the inside of your skull, like hammers off the flat of an anvil. Sense leaves you. Not even the call of the object comes through your head now. All you feel is the will to crush and sunder. Rip and tear. At all costs.

Kiros ​

Your mind feels the pull between fury and fear. Caught betwixt the storm of whispers and screams. Heirahit is steady in your hand. The skulls of the necromancers look like right melons in your eye.

​

 

[Edward Lorain]

Edward groans in pain and anger as he gets up from being thrown to the cave floor. It was not the first time that the winds had left him, after all, they could be pretty chaotic when they wanted to be. Still, the sudden thrill that came with such violent winds left Edward feeling exposed. Not to mention, the necromancers were in the game now.

He shot a look at the creepy tentacled caster, but that was not something he could deal with. At least, not by himself. The feeling he was getting from his gut was that getting the helmet would fix all of this. They had just had to get it. Yes, they. No matter what. Any of the currently living with the helmet would probably be better than any of the undead.

Ed took off, racing towards the helm while attempt to slip and dip past the shambling bodies of the undead. He still had to stop to completely destroy one or two of the undead.

"Any ideas priest? I would ask the angry one, but I don't think she would answer."

Even as he said that, he kept calling for the winds. Any little bit of help he could get. C'mon, not now. You can't leave me now.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

The illumination of his curtain shone familiar light, bringing Kiros awareness that the spell's effect was true. It was a brief solution to the threat the Iron Revenant posed, but the incantation purchased precious seconds that were best not squandered. The Revenant appeared indomitable, and he had little urge to fight it. Which defined it as beyond the scope of his quest, by Her own given holy instruction.

Devoid of any such death wish, Kiros merely wished for escape. The glowing yellow object was his clear objective, and every fiber in his being told him that it would reveal the way out he so desperately sought. While his own magic held little means for its retrieval, Edwards did. With a burst of invoked wind, the man went flying upward towards the helm to grasp it, but was ultimately unable to keep hold of it. No sooner had he reached it than a tentacle plucked him away, sending both tumbling onto the ground with both necromancers distraught by the artifact’s sudden disturbance. It was the first Kiros had heard them speak of anything beyond battle and magic.

"Any ideas priest? I would ask the angry one, but I don't think she would answer." Asked Edward while the helmet rolled away, with the same undead that had assailed them scrambling towards it. With the helm far and the necromancers near, the latter were in more pressing need of a solution. As long as they remained present, their pursuit of the helm was bound to be disruptive towards his efforts of obtaining it, and a solution to the threat they posed was prudent. Kiros could not loudly announce such a plan, when the necromancers could clearly hear it.

Kiros merely returned a look toward him, while making a hidden rapping gesture with the head of his staff. The pair of necromancers appeared temporarily distracted, providing the potential opportunity to take them both out. Kiros then made a hidden, subtle towards one of them while he turned towards the other himself. Hopefully Edward would understand the wordless communication.

With his grip choked up on his staff, Kiros prepared to attack the necromancer he was nearest to. There was a chance they might retaliate through magic, should the attempt to put them down turn awry. He had counter-magic, and an incantation of Immute could quell whatever spell they might fall back upon, if any. If not, the hefty swing of Heirahit would bring the battlestaff smashing against their head.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

Doubled over, Nere heaved ragged breaths as her skin steamed. Piles of weapons lay scattered around her, lodged into now unmoving undead - broken, chipped, melted upon summoning by the heat of her runes. She looked around for another foe to strike at, but the dead had been scattered by a single strike. That same strike was winding up to swing at her, now. It didn't connect, slowed down by something... someone... oh, what did she care? This would be her only opening.

Nere had long lost sight of her goal. She did not notice as the helm rolled to a stop at her feet. As she turned round to face the Revenant, she kicked the relic aside, carelessly. She tried to summon a new blade in her hand, but the runes across her body ached in protest. Had she run out of weapons? That rarely happened.

THERE IS ONE, said a voice. SUMMON THAT BLADE, another chimed in. At her back, she felt the hand-presses of those long gone, her old crew, maybe. Pushing her upwards, willing her forward. IT CAN CUT ANYTHING. EVEN A METAL BEAST. EVEN A MEMORY. The battle was too thick around her to notice that those voices sounded warped and far away, like little bells, so unlike the sailors she worked with. USE THE BLADE!

A line of blood trickled down one corner of Nere's mouth. She smiled through it. Nere threw her head back and put a hand up to her mouth, wrapped her fingers around something invisible, and pulled. A thin silver blade manifested between her teeth. Silver guard and silver hilt seemed to match, all made from one piece of metal. She pulled the sword out from her gullet, breathing steam.

She steadied herself, took one last inhale, and coughed up blood. The voices were still urging her on as she righted herself a second time, but they needn't bother. Of course she would fight to the last - it was only fair. She'd asked it of others so many times before.

Two wobbling steps took Nere closer to the iron nightmare. The blade scratched against the ground as she moved, and where it touched bone, leather, rock, it left a mark.

Nere leveled that blade at the Revenant. She pushed her momentum forward and charged at the impossible, hulking thing, without much of a plan. And she screamed, without much of a voice, her throat ragged and hollow.

 

[Twisted Teller]

Kick away the relic, the sailor did.

The strangely lit object, as luminous as a sickly sun, sailed through the air, lofted up as it was by her boot. It pinged off the wall, bounced off the skull of a brainless minion, rattled the bones of a second, and then landed neatly in the hands of one groaning zombie whose mouth hung violently agape, snapped at the hinges, knocking their club away. It groaned, and looked down at the object of power. Not a single living braincell to call its own. And yet. A deathly intelligence seemed to gleam within the black pit of its eyeless sockets.

"Yes!" One of the necromancers called out in ecstasy. "YES!!!" His voice shuddered with powerful pleasure. "It shall be mine, Willard! You see! You blathering fool! It shall be mine!"

A staff struck the ecstatic necromancer hard in the back of their skull. Bone crunched with a wet crack, blood sprayed out from the caved in skull, and the necromancer toppled down to the floor, limbs aspasm as he muttered strangeness.

Willard, whose arm was still a stretched out abomination of tentacled flesh, squint his silvery eyes and lashed out with his appendage, reaching for the glowing object of power.

The thin sliver of magicked steel pulled from Nere's throat sliced through the earth and scarred what stood in its way. The Weapon pulled from runed flesh, like a hair made of a god's power, whipped out and lashed. A score of undead cut through, the necromancers limb slices off in her reckless assault. The helm, fallen to the ground once again as the one armed necromancer howls in agony, their transformed limb sizzling at it's shortened stump.

Wild winds whip about. The cave howls, as of the nightmare land itself is glad to see such violence. The revenant adds it's tortured voice to the chorus, brings it's hammer down on the sizzling sailor and her whisper silk Weapon. The hammer's head crushes down. Strikes at the ground which erupts in a plume of dust and bone and sends shards of earth and metal out in a shredding spray. The zombie with the skull is bisected by the shrapnel, and the force of it sends the skull sailing up into the air once more.

"It, shall, be MINE!" Willard the necromancer cries out, his second arm contorts, bones snapping, flesh bulging, and it too whips out, grasping hand splayed wide as it reaches for the helmet.

The revenant's limb falls free of it's form, crashes and clanks against the floor, fused metal gauntlet still wrapped around the hammer as that hunk of metal body still attached to the dismembered metal arm steams, it's edges red hot. The war wraith stands without hammer and with one less arm. It seems to stare at Nere, it's armored body lashed with glowing scars, it stands frozen before her. As if stunned to inaction by a greater force, black sand swirling about its form. The grains seem to reach out to the fallen arm, seem to try and bridge the limb back to the body.

Edward​

The dark winds return to you. But they demand blood. You feel that they will not lend you their strength less you sate their thirst for fresh, hot, blood. Give them what they want, and set sail!

Kiros​

You stand before the slain necromancer, you see his body contorting. Just as you saw those priests of old dying before you so long ago. You hear laughter. In your mind, but so too from the necromancer whose skull you so easily dashed open. You dread. What, only you know, but the helm, you feel it in your bones. The helm is the only thing that will free you from it!

Nere​

You crave more violence. But you feel the pull for power. Destroy. Yes. Dismember and desecrate all that stand between you and the helm of power!

Arnor​

You feel it there, in your gut. That old bestial hunger. The old blood of the frigid waste. It is hot through your veins. Call forth the beast! Claim the helm!

Edward Lorain Kiros Rahnel Nere Ashorn Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Anger.

Rage.

It swelled in him. Like a thirst, like a hunger. Like a desire, lust for something more than gold, more than flesh, more than riches. More than glory and more than anything else.

The beast within was not to be denied.

The transformation was always felt deep in him, but this- this place made him more angry than ever.

He ran forward, before he flung the axe of Knottington and his sword in the ground, and transformed. It was a great beast of war, Svalen. It was larger than any bear- and now Arnor's form had matured, going from brown to a lighter gray color. And all the focus, all the rage, happened on a singular object- the Revenant. Arnor stood on his mighty hind legs, the Nordenfiir towering over many, nearly ten feet tall in his form. His body was built like an oak, larger than any bear that naturally walked the lands.

The beast went for the Revenant, mighty claws and mighty gnashing teeth to rend foul flesh and deliver his hatred manifested.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

Standing over the necromancer with Heirahit still brandished and ready to deliver a second strike, it was clearly apparent there was no need to do so. The necromancer remained in stiff posture, stirring in occasional spasms from the incapacitating strike of the skull. All in a manner that was not unlike that of Astes all those years ago. Kiros even saw the late priest's face in the necromancer's dying expression.

“Ahahah! Even after all this time, you’ll try to murder your way out of anything. You’ve not changed one bit, Namrut.”

Kiros recoiled in horror and shock inflicted by the biting accusation over his actions. The situation was different here as it was back then. These were not only necromancers, but ones that disturbed the souls of the departed for nothing more than their petty squabble. Still, he could not shake his disgust. Whatever righteousness he formerly felt faded to doubt. Perhaps it was true. He could not deny violence had served rapid solution to many pressing problems beyond what he faced here.

There was no time for battle philosophy. Regret was a matter best dealt with later, for nothing would matter if he met his end here, anyhow. Kiros needed to escape, and the glowing help represented the way to freedom. Away from the taunts of his victims, and away from the grim danger that had dogged him since his arrival to this hell.

In desperation, Kiros sprinted straight towards it, heading forth towards Nere and the Iron Revenant near where it had landed. The remaining necromancer made his reach for the helmet too, reaching out with an extended arm. Kiros ran as fast as he could in a race to beat his hand to it, with Herahit gripped tight in preparation for further magic should the situation he faced take yet another swerve.

He needed a way out. He needed the helm.

 

[Nere Ashorn]

To say that Nere's mind cleared as she gazed upon the damaged Revenant would be too generous. No, her killing intent only sharpened, her focus returning to the helm. Where was it, where was the thing that would bring an end to this wretched field of slaughter?

The relic glinted in the be-tentacled arm of the necromancer, as he greedily pulled it close to his chest. How annoying. Even through the smear of ash and blood on her face, Nere's scowl was visible. With an arching swing, the Silk Sword slicked through the necromancer's second arm. The gleaming helm clattered once more to the ground, tossed about by the writhing flesh of the severed tentacle, bouncing noisily between rock and bone.

Nere growled as she watched it clang and clamor to a stop. Others chased after it. She chased too, perhaps not faster, but with more fury. In that moment she looked not unlike the Revenant as she rushed forward, eyes stormy behind the steam of her skin, a killing thing that cut down any shambling corpse that got in her way.

At last! Sword still in hand, she stumbled low and scooped up the helm. It gleamed a beautiful, maddening yellow, grasped in her palm so. Nere held it up to gaze at it, her lips parted to say something. Before she could, a black fog rushed over her, and she lost her senses.

Nere collapsed to the ground, all the blood boiled out of her by the demands of the runes etched into her skin. The Silk Sword unwound itself, dusting away into silver air. But even in unconsciousness, Nere kept her grip on the helm.

 

[Edward Lorain]

Edward hated violence, partially because violence often brought more violence directed back at him. He had lived much of his life preferring to run and avoid the violence. However, all of these common reservations seemed to blow away like dust in the wind when he felt the call.

The winds were hungry. Why shouldn't he respond? Besides, the undead were all around him and he needed to protect himself. That's right. All this was, was protection.

Edward screamed as blades of wind twirled around him, giving no care for their targets. All that mattered was that Edwards was not touched.

With this new found defense, Edward continued running for the helm. Even with Nere now holding it. That did not matter, he needed to get his hands on that relic. It was the only way.

Twisted Teller

 

[Twisted Teller]

The ancient blood of the Svalen boils. All hear the pound of their mortal hearts, drums that quicken with the want of sweet release. Staff swings, blades of wind howl, and darkness wraps warm around the steamed sailor, white hot runes etched across her flesh fading to dull reds.

The Axe of Knottington flies true. End over end until its head splits into a bit of malformed metal, right where the black sands twined and tried to reconnect the sundered arm. The weight of the great ursine crashes against the stunned war gheist, claws and teeth dig into gaps of armor, find what little old-dead flesh might still hid beneath the unnatural carapace. It groans, and claws back, digging through fur, fat, and muscle with its jagged metal fingers.

Pain. What satisfying pain.

The winds, the winds howl, and slice through the dead like a keel through warm waters. The necromancer's arm, long and extended as it is, is lopped off, and the necromancer howls in agony and defeat.

Yet it is the priest who comes first. Frantic. Made greedy by fear. By the want to leave, the want to escape. His hands hold the Helm at the end, whatever came before but a red stain that burns into black.

Blood spilled. Flesh torn. Bones broken. The howls of rage and agony melt in your ears as all turns to black. Twisted as your mangled forms may feel.

The glow of the Helm is the last you all see. The last you all feel. Laughter, twisted, bubbles up inside you. Your own, or someone else's, your warped minds have no way to know. In the end, it all fades to to a sea of black.

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

“I specified the undead in your way,
I asked you not to kill anything else!
Need I state your objective clear, you fool?
Acquire the helm quickly or be smote!”

As he made his dash towards the helm, the others did too. Kiros believed it to hold his means of escape, and it was for that reason alone he had sought it. That it was deemed the objective to a holy quest delivered directly from his own deity held comparatively less weight. If anything, the fact that She had anything to do with it was discouraging – he had been sent here by Her in the first place. He'd not trust her to see his safe deliverance from this place, should he fail. Any alternative would be more reliable, and that it was the helm and not Her that promised escape pushed him on.

Throwing himself forward in a leap after the helm with his arm outstretched, he finally felt the helm upon the palm of his hand. This prize that the necromancers had battled was the key, Kiros understood that much. He'd no desire to understand much further, and deigned not to hear any more from those colleagues haunting him from his regretful past.

That much, he was at least granted. The glow of the helm gave way to hideous laughter that taunted him for a moment more, before all faded away. Leaving him to the escape and silence he so sorely wanted, along with an unknown relic he knew nothing of.

 

[Velaeri]

@Edward Lorain Nere Ashorn Arnor Skuldsson Delaney Lennox

Struggle, flee, fight - your actions bring no greater effect of change to this miserable place. You see before you a landscape corrupted by death, hate, fear, and decay. You feel in your heart you have failed at your task.

Even if your task had been nothing of great significance to this realm or the world at large.

Everything begins to fade to nothing.

The whisper of the winds between worlds greet you, speaking stories of failed virtues and broken honor that you recognize in your bones, be it your own or witnessed others.

Your fear and your pain remains.

Your nightmare lingers in your mind long after it fades from your senses.

You awaken in the place you last remember before arriving there. The stench of death clings to you like a lover's perfume. What wounds you experienced in your fever dream you wake to find are real.

Beside you there is a strange, black box and within it you find an even stranger item. You can't say why, but you instinctively know what it is and how to use it.

Arnor: The Phial of Orro
Nere: The Phobis Stone
Delaney: The Matron's Braid
Edward: The Candle of Vior

Kiros Rahnel awakens with the The Helm of the Departed clutched within his hands.

Your lives go on as normally as they possibly can.