The Syzygy The Syzygy: Rise of the Abyssal

[Orissa]

Six dragons were spotted in the darkness, one a moon dragon that blended within the sky, only seen by their rider adorned in gold, as five of them were fitted in such finery. Two blue dragons, one white, one black. They were recognisable, especially flanking the Princess of Thanasis upon her Ransa Dragon.

Orissa Aeldren dismounted as quickly as she could, approaching the medics that readily bowed to her before helping her Gilded Wing squadron with their supplies. Medical resources, enough to treat many if it came to it. Between the two blues, an assortment of Thanasian Iron spikes were carried to the bare sands of the beach. The riders of the Princess's personal squadron began barking orders, getting other Ascendants to assist in setting up the projectiles for launch.

The Ransa rider strode forward, a smile on her face despite the dire surroundings. She recognised the Valimir woman from the power she wielded through voice alone, a typical trait of her family. "I have brought a full stock of supplies. If we burn through these Tears, call for me. I am sure my gaurds will be glad to see me get away from the front lines."

 

[Ronja]

The Delta

Following the stillness, a new movement began. The wolf convulsed, so violently she was sure it was about to rip out of its skin and transform, released from mortal flesh. Had it not been for the sound, come from the pit of the stomach. Gargling.

Propped against one elbow, she watched in mounting confusion that was separated from horror by a mere hair. There was no fright to be had at this point, just wide-eyed observance as to whatever would happen next. She’d seen many die and while it wasn’t what she’d planned to do, there was a peace within her about the possibility of it. The least she could do was fight until the end, measured and as calm as there was being on this accursed shore.

The moon-eyed beast’s form was large next to the fire as it laid to rest. Whether it was for but a moment or for good wasn’t easily told, her stare trained instead on what yet crawled. It was comings towards her, casting a little shadow that reached with ever longer tendrils. On the multitude of twisting limbs were rows of eyes, black pearls sunk into slick skin. She watched it like through a gauze, mind jolting to an awareness of things to come from the Deep.

Providence?

Waves crashed, a wind brushing through her cropped hair and garments. Chilly fingers, but somehow comforting, beneath the bubbling in her ears words she could not understand. Two yet stood, but for what purpose she dared not fathom.

She growled, digging her knife deeper into the sand, the beads about her wrists rubbing together in a dull click. Through the cool ground she reached for the wolven form, a warmth projecting past the soft fur and skin, sinking into fibers with a coaxing ripple. It whispered within the skull, ghost of a touch running the length of its snout and behind the ears. A kiss on the forehead like from a beloved, gently asking that one should wake.

You’ve things to do yet, Devourer.

The knife was gripped tighter. With her other hand, she gestured encouragement for what approached her.

Farren Lóthlindor Cynefin

Cliffsnotes:
- Ronja attempts to wake Farren up by lending some strength by means of WITCHCRAFT
- she remains in the ground, waiting for the creepy crawlie to reach her

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

A rippling warmth brushed down the length of Farren's snout. Where even the crackling fire next to her failed to warm her cold pelt, this energy sank into her skin and felt like the gentle basking of the sun. Like if she were to open her eyes, she would have been dozing in a spring meadow, roused by the chorus of bees.

Instead, the world around her was still a nightmare.

But now Farren felt she had the strength to face it. The light of quicksilver returning to her eyes. The strength of steel back in her teeth. And a bright anger simmered in her chest, sharp and eager to test the mettle of her wrath. These would help her stand, help her fight.

And as predator's do, she watched that abomination make its journey across the sand with violent anticipation. The sight of it twisted her gut with disgust, for Farren had learned a harsh lesson when it came to where she sank her teeth. She did not think that whatever creatures had swam from the deep could be so easily defeated as ripping them apart. Yet her jaws snapped the empty air, reveling in the vengeful desire to try regardless.

Devourer. Is what had danced through her thoughts. The voice coming back to her and sounding familiar despite the metallic echo of magic.

Grey eyes flashed in the firelight, shifting to the witch. And with a warning snarl, she lunged to Ronja's side, ducking her nose under the woman's arm until it hung over the top of her neck. Pressing her shoulder into the witch's chest to support her, Farren stared one eye into Ronja's, trying to convey her meaning.

Ronja had saved her, so Farren would return the favor.

But first, she needed the witch to get up and get on.

Ronja Cynefin

 

[Ivan Skender]

He was delusional. He must've been. That was the prevailing thought racing through his mind as he witnessed the great Armada of the damned sail away against his mortal enemy. Through his enfeebled vision he saw his magic take shape and deliver unholy chastisement to the colossal beast; the full wrath of the Sea turned against those who sought to claim such power.

His job was done, his triumph undeniable. As those last shreds of energy he still had burned away, he saw the beast swimming off, a wave of relief washing over him at the sight of his enemy in full retreat. Even the howling winds seemed to share in his victory, its loud cries carrying the word of his achievement as they chanted past him, seemingly whispering 'Kraken's Bane' in his ears.

He would not have long to witness this most glorious triumph however. A tidal wave, of a gloom as dark as his magic, swept away the last remnants of the Relentless, taking the injured blonde down with it.

He lost consciousness, being dragged down to the dark abyss along with the wreckage of his ship. Darkness enveloped him, as his armour dragged him down to the depths.

Suddenly though, his eyes snapped open as he felt himself being pulled. Beyond the pitch-black gloom that unfurled in every direction in front of his eyes, the only thing he could see were the golden eyes that stared right at him from the below.

He struggled, thinking himself caught by one of the shapeless beasts, but soon, as he resurfaced, his head feeling the breeze above the waves, his eyes wandered towards his saviour.

- "C-Cortosi?" - He stuttered, doing his best not to choke on the Sea water that sprayed his face with every wave. - "We n-need to m-mak-ke it to a ship." -

Before they got eaten.

Edward Lorain​

 

[Cynefin]

Every easy step that brought Cynefin to the women that had waited too long to run away was a reminder to something hazy and blurry in his past. He had always hungered, even when he was full. This great appetite of his, beyond that of any mortal being, surely meant that he was destined for great things, that he was a great thing. Even after sucking all the love and power from the Madonna, Cynefin still hungered.

He wanted to taste revenge now that he had had a taste of love.

“Halt!” He called. He only spoke Iza, had only been speaking Iza, unaware of language barriers from the great deep to the world beneath the sun. His stride quickened, seeing lesser beings before him. His hand reached out, as if to grab one of the women though they were not close enough to do so. Instead, Cyn kneeled down, finding his brother, picking him up and cradling him in his arms.

He had never seen something so beautiful, so majestic. Something so small, grasping for life, still fighting, even while so young. A warrior through and through. Cynefin turned towards his pawn, holding up the beacon of their future. Salt came from Cynefin and the heat of the fire lessened until it was washed out with the damp air. Salty droplets hung suspended in the air in a dome around those from the deep.

Finally, words would come to Cynefin’s small, thin, red lips that was ripe and plump with magick.

A whisper of healing, a shared gift of blood that was indeed thicker than water. Cynefin bestowed upon his brother a kiss from their passing mother, savoring this new flavor of love. To give without let receiving, how beautiful. He passed the young to the one who was loyal, able to find him in the night.

“Protect him.” For dessert, Cynefin wanted the robust flavor of revenge. He imagined it tasted like some of the strange aberrations of fish from the deep. He bent low, picked up a piece of wood from the fire pit. With magic water coalesced around the thickest part, and a club made for drowning its victims was formed.

Satisfied, Cynefin began his chase, singing songs known only to the darkest, deepest depths of the sea. A symphony from the hadal would announce Cynefin’s quickening arrival as if the woman were trying to run from the trenches themselves.

Ronja Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Dingo]

​

---

In the wake of dark waters, where no sun doth shine, the Silverfish swim. Arms long and hungry. They grab. They take. Into their bodies. Into their hulls.

The surface breaks, and those two carried by the winds of fate struggle and lap. Fight to stay afloat. Relentless as the ship they had sailed upon.

Yet something grabs Edward. Pulls him down first with a plunk. Then, something grabs Ivan. Weak and withered. Drained. Hardly a husk after the storm passed through young coil.

Down again. Dark again. Drowned again.

All goes black.

Visions flash before your eyes. Lights of every color. Eyes as wide as saucers. A mess of arms. A tangle of limbs and sucking teeth. A portal opens. Beaked and sharp. It takes you in. Slimy and cold, and oh so dark. Save for the feint shimmers and glows of things inside. Carapaced beings stand tall as wet limbs, soft as seaweed, yet strong as iron, drag you across a floor that feels alive itself.

A valve of flesh comes open with a pulse.

In you go. Screams. Moans. Cries as minds unravel.

Other people there around you in the cramped bowel of a beast. And those pale things, Abyssal, stand outside the gate.

Maybe it dawns on you. Maybe your minds are too rattled with brine and poison to make sense of it. Wherever you are. Whatever you are in. Whoever is in here with you.

You are their prisoner now.

---

​

---

Crawl and crawl the crawlie does. Screeching and swinging its little arms about. It has eyes, it does. Many and more with which it watches the witches huddle and hobble and hold before the fire.

To themself. To the fire. To each other.

Instinct sees the sharpness. No human babe. No thing so innocent. A cunning ancient. A cunning of the deep. It screams. The sound of its mother true. The sound which nails through. Their minds. The dying witch. The wolf witch.

Come the sound of its brother’s voice. Its kin. The child stops its screech. Skitters back toward that being, Of Royal Blood. It crawled to him to have strong arms pick it up. It chirped and chirruped. Its arms waggled and waved, stuck happy and sucked pleased.

With the kiss of magick, it laxed. Its thrashy arms stilled. It slowed. Even as it was passed unto the Loyal Spear, cloaked in the aphotic night, it stilled. The Loyal Spear bowed, and watched as Cynefin gave chase. Listened to the song of the depths, crash across the sky. Felt the cold salt spray, wash about the shore.

Something new had been born.

---

​

---

Into the storm. Into the twister of ink. Valathor and Jensen streak forward, as the walls of viscous midnight churn and turn and twist.

So exhilarated by the spectacle, Draxton nearly misses the sight. Were it not for the shimmer of green scales that flashed with the fire’s light. His eyes narrow, and his lips curl with delight. He shifts in his saddle, and bade his dark god to fly forward. To fly after.

The Reds bomb on. The breaths of their dragons screech and hiss and whine as the tongues of death flicker and dance against the curtain of ink.

Within the veil, the sounds of the storm assail Jensen and Valathor. The winds surge and the ink mantle that so protects the Crawling Mountain, buffs and whips at the dragon and his rider.

Catches the tip of the divine beast’s wing. But both rider and mount make it through to the other side. Rough as the landing might be. They crash before the shelled Mountain. Its carapaces glimmers, though the stars shine so dimly through the curtain that protects it.

In the eye of the storm, it is oddly calm. Though blooms of flame, and streams of wicked glow paint the black canvas of the twister, nary a sound save the whipping wind’s howl can be heard within.
Even the Mountain is silent. No scuttlers or striders to be seen. No crabs, no lice. Only the great silver thing, tall as the towers of Thanasis.

Something like a door yawns wide. A pale blue light shines from within it.

A rumble crashes down nearby. Carnifex, whose black scales are coated in the ichorous material of the twister, thrashes in the sand. Draxton, somehow still atop his beast, wide eyed, still grins.

“Come now! Carnifex!” he cries out as he tries to will the dark god beneath him. “Give your ire to that THING,” It shakes its horrid head, stumbles forth with plumes of sand kicked up beneath its claws. But its eyes have trouble blinking away the sticky substance.

All the while, the Mountain lays still. The great segmented plates of its silvery shell, almost seem to breath as it sits.

The maw stays open. The light glows on. As if to welcome those before it.

 

[Edward Lorain]

Cortosi Coast?​

"How about thanks for saving you-"

Ed never got to finish that sentence as he felt something wrap around his leg. Before he could even react, they were both yanked back underneath the waves. He had barely had time to capture his breath, and he certainly did not have enough to fight some creature in the water.

He reached out for the winds, but they were too far away. They had been pulled under too quickly, and they were moving fast. Black spots began to pop into Edward's vision, and he was not sure when he passed out if he ever did.

Yet, he had to assume he had passed out because when his vision cleared it was the stuff of nightmares. Everything was still a little foggy in his mind, but the things he was seeing were grotesque. He was moving? No, something was dragging him. Oh, the Dreadlord was there too. Shame, that means they both were gonna die.

He felt weightless for a second and then impacted the ground with a thud. Edward groaned in pain as he tried to force himself to his feet. Wait, had someone just thrown him? That was insulting. He would have continued with his random thoughts, but everything came to a pause as he finally got a look at where they were, with all of these people.

"By the bloody tempest," Edward whispered in equal parts awe and fear.

Ivan Skender Dingo

 

[Ivan Skender]

In his enfeebled state, he lost consciousness during those very first moments after being pulled underwater. As his vision darkened, and his lungs let out that ultimate breath of air, Ivan came to the realisation that this was it for him; that he was going to die.

The Academy's golden student, the most lethal initiate Vel Anir had to offer, the Kraken's bane... undone by a fish.

Fucking embarrassing.

Except that this was not to be the end for him. He woke back up with a thud; not his thud that was, but by someone else landing by his feet. He glanced around for a few moments, before a sharp pain down on his thorax drew his attention elsewhere.

It was there, under the dim light of wherever they were, that he finally got a glimpse of the damage he had sustained from his magical conjuring gone rogue. His right arm was torn; the skin greyed and dried, the flesh broken and blown, with a few glimpses of bone being visible underneath the blood and pus. Further afield, though covered partially by his light armour - or what was left of it anyways - he got a momentary peek at his torso... only to glance upon more seemingly decomposing flesh.

That was not all.

As he moved, he felt a sharp pain erupt from his body, but beyond that he also felt a ripple of aftershocks that spread from a number of impact points to the rest of his body. As he looked down, he saw the remnants of a black aura rising and sinking into his sickly-looking skin.

Fuck.

It would seem as though the aftermath of his magical display was still unfolding, with his own magic, turned against him, corroding his body slowly but surely. He needed to get out of here before he ended up decayed from the inside out.

Fortunately, it would seem as though fate had smiled upon him, as his gaze - darting around in desperation - finally landed on the figure of the Cortosi stowaway that was now there in the cell with him. Ivan heard him mutter something.

- "Nevermind about your tempest, Cortosi." - He said, getting up slowly, the movement sending even more painful shocks coursing through his body. - "We need to get out of here." -

Edward Lorain ​

 

[Isander]

The Village of Virspoke​

His spear had long since snapped, leaving Isander's hands slick beneath his gauntlets and filled with the nearest sword or hammer or cudgel in reach. He lost track of the bodies that fell upon him, of the wounds that pierced maille and leather and flesh, of the time that had slipped from him in this vile parade.

Isander felt very alone. He stood panting, the stink of bog and rotted fish and blood putrid in his nose; his chin was wet, bearing the sticky bile that permeated his throat.

The remnants of the Councilor's guard had broken. The retreat was sounded. And the screams came muted, distant; a consequence of the thunderous blast, no doubt. In the skein of murk and blood that veiled his gaze, it was difficult to note how many remained.

He sucked in a breath, forced a second hand around the trembling grip he managed on his now chipped blade.

The spire rose beyond, cresting the shallows as a dark tower that eclipsed the penumbral shroud above.

Were that he could profess himself a lesser man—indeed, with surety he knew himself a coward for the quaver in his knees as he broached the coming storm—that he might turn tail and flee, abandon the village and those stragglers who yet tarried.

But, he had given his pledge. His word as a Knight. No, stronger. A promise, a curse that held him on marionette strings.

Nothing for it, then.

He took step into the shallows. A step nearer the abyssal spire.

 

[Aderyn Verchtegid]

Virspoke

---

Aderyn ducked and weaved her way through the fighting on the beach, barely able to contain her confusion and staring at her hands. She didn't know what those spikes were or how to repeat it, but that hadn't stopped a couple from forming around her anyway, whipping through the air around her to force Abyssal beasts away.

They didn't all comply, especially those with gnarled spear and coral shield who sought to thrust past the spikes in search of Aderyn's unarmored flesh. The spikes did their best to deflect the blows but Aderyn's dress and skin were slowly getting shredded as she ran.

She stumbled and scrambled forward, unable to get her footing back under her before a squad of fishmen rushed toward her. As her spikes fended off three of them, the fourth speared her skirts down to stop her moving away and quickly wrapped a wet, snaking rope like an animal form of seaweed around her foot. It began to drag her, the binding squeezing her ankle and calf.

With little ability to control her crystalline defenders, she was left to think fast on how to get herself out of this as all of her effort to get away from the sea was rendered void. She watched as her crystals were smashed or buried themselves inextricably into the bodies of her would-be abductors. Time slowed as her Joy flowed forth, unbidden but beyond welcomed. The flow of her blood roared in her ears surpassing the sound of the battle and of the crashing waves.

There was a bottle in the sands. She grasped for it, throwing her body to the side to get nearer as she was dragged past. Her fingers wrapped around the neck and she bolted up into and then past a seated position, hinging at her waist to bring the bottle down on her shin with all of the force she could muster, the remaining embers of her Fury resisting the pain. The bottle shattered, leaving her with a cylinder of sharp glass. She fell back and threw herself forward again and again, thrashing like a dying fish ashore, swiping at her binding until it snapped.

The remaining fishman staggered forward having lost her weight behind him. Before he could recover, she was upon him, stabbing with the glass over and over again, water and ichor splashing and spurting on and around her.

In truth it had likely died with the first strike, but she couldn't stop. The Joy and Fury that coursed through her had mixed and taken over, and this act of butchery felt just and right, good and ... pleasing. It deserved it, after all, right? And she deserved revenge for even just the attempt at taking her and doing gods knew what to her, enthralling her or eating her or whatever it was they did.

She stood and backed away as the emotions drained away having little further use, leaving her numb and bleeding alone on her section of the beach. She might have had time to examine what she had done had she not suddenly noticed the abyssal tower that had risen high into the sky just offshore.

Not far from her she saw a knight, his armor blemished from desperate fight but his stance still strong. He stepped slowly into the shallow water, beginning his path toward the tower. She ran at him.

"Stop! No!" She screamed, waving her arms to get his attention, dripping and bloody bottle still in her hand spraying Abyssal fluids like paint from a brush. As she neared, she skidded to a stop and pleaded, "Please, you can't abandon the beach. We have to hold the beach."

Dingo Isander

 

[Gruki]

Virspoke

The Councillor's forces were routed. Broken, washed away by the abyssal tide, their shouts and screams lessened as the distance between them grew. Casting down the last of her assailants, Gruki took a belaboured breath. All around her was the stink of death, wretched and vile.

Fish-fiends and friend alike. Bodies on bodies on bodies. The scene was horrific, the stench doubly so.

Raising her visor, the tall she-orc coughed, spat. Blood dripped thick and sludgy from the broad blade clamped in her fist. She was unsure how many monstrosities she had killed in the last half hour. A dozen? Two?

Not enough. She told herself, taking a long pull from her waterskin. Nowhere near enough.

Movement along the shoreline caught her eye. Turning, Gruki watched as a figure scarpered down the beach towards the Tower, skirts trailing in the sand behind them. There was another figure, beyond, walking out to sea.

Cricking her neck, Gruki stepped over the bodies in her path, started walking towards them as the first yelled to the second. So far as she knew, these... creatures of the Abyss did not partake in polite conversation. Hells. It wasn't like she had been given the chance to find out.

'Isander? Isander!'

Running down the beach, Gruki threw herself into the shallows after them. Water fused around her boots as she came to stand beside her fellow knight. 'Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!' She remarked, smiling fiercely. For a moment there, she had thought herself the last one left standing. Dreaded it, even. 'You look... well! A little bloody, maybe.' The woman stood nearby had blood on her dress, too, Gruki noted.

'What are you two, um... what're we going to do about that?' She asked, staring up at the dark edifice looming over them.

Isander Aderyn Verchtegid

 

[Dingo]

​

---

Sailors twisted and moaned about. Wept. Their minds cracked, if not withered husks.

You are not sure if their state is from the conflict. Too much horror. Too much wrong, unfettering their binds to reality.

One grabs on to Ivan. Fingers greedy. Eyes wide with horror. “They are taking us!” he screeches. “Taking us!”

The hoarse voices of the trapped crowd rise in a wicked chorus.

“Oh shut up,” one clear voice barks. “Bloody act like you’ve been in a bind before, you sorry lot,” a bedraggled young woman grinned, her Anirian uniform marked her a captain of the Navy. “Least you can do before the squids take us,” she grinned, looking over the two of you.

Should calm hold in the mind, one might notice the walls and floors of the cell. They seem organic. Like walls of thick muscle. They pulse, and throb. Squeeze.

The room begins to shrink. And the whole ship lurches. The ceiling grows smaller and smaller. Then expands. Almost like a lung, or a bowel, moving with the rest of its organism.

The valve opens. A carapaced Abyssal, with a clawlike arm stands beside another, unarmored being.

Different than those either of you have seen so far. Three eyed, with a head more bulbous and round than the rest. Wyrd robes hang from it. A sigil, like a claw, or beak, emblazoned upon its chest.

It steps through the throng.
The young captain waits, sharp eyed. Shifts, with something in her hand.

The robed being grabs up those bent and broken figures about it. Carves a flat line across their flesh with a trace of its own limbs. They hardly whimper. Almost seem calmer as it approaches.

The young captain takes a chance. Springs forward with the head of a spear in her hand. A quiet furry rumbles from her throat as she tries to shiv the bastard.

A pulse ripples through the air. As if a wave of cold water, laps across your mind. She stops stunned, as the robed one turns to her. The spearhead falls to the fleshy floor. Neath one of the placid prisoners.

The robed one takes the captain’s wrist, traces three flat lines across it. Pacified, the Captain follows the robed abyssal as soon as it turns to leave.

The armored one stands and watches.

---

​

---

There upon the shores of madness. There before the every-color tower. Ser Belkian stood. Wide eyed as his mind tried to make sense of what he saw. What he had seen.

The screams were all around them. The wails.

But they were quieter now. Softer neath the crunch of surf across the sands, and the snap of bones between wide jaws. Beneath glassy eyes, round and without light in them.

Scaled bodies, barnacled beings, armored in salt stained metals of old. All marched, scuttled, and moved across the Village of Virspoke, like things bound by instinct. Following unseen strands, laid long before any such ramshackle place dared stand upon the mired banks.

Surf, washes across his knees. His boots sucked into the mud as he stands before the pitch. What defenders once stood, gone. Now only the dregs remained.

Twas the call for a name that brought him back. Not his own, but anothers. Isander. Yes. That was the knight who had accompanied them on this perilous march. Isander. Who gave his oath of protection to all who would flee Virspoke.

Ser Belkian turned to find the figures. Three. Hobbled together. Tattered and barely standing. In the midnight drink of the shore, just as he. His hands came to tight fists.

He grit his teeth, and trudged toward them. “We must away!” he called out to them as he neared. “There is not but doom for us here now!”

A doom he had been so willing to welcome, but a moment ago.

His eyes widened. “Eyes up!” he rushed the more toward them, each pump of his legs pulled down by the weight of so much muck. His boots caught. He fell forward and into the surf. Just some yards away from them.

Impeding their retreat, a brineborn, flanked by a motley crew of fishmen and scuttlers hurried for them.

Further down the shore, lines of captured villagers were being loaded onto the dread ship that’d rammed through the Seahorse.

Its brass bell gave its haunting toll. Klang-a-klang-klang.

 

[Ivan Skender]

The pulse stunned him, his entire body lulled into obliviousness. For a moment he forgot about the pain, about where he was, or how he'd gotten there as the magic utterly enraptured him... at least until a thud snapped his mind feebly back to reality. It was as though he'd just woken up from the deepest slumber he'd ever had in his life. He looked up, saw the young captain being dragged away and her spear laying by his feet. With his wits just about him, Ivan reached for it.

He was not fully aware of what was happening still; his mind hazy, and his vision still somewhat cloudy, but as he glimpsed upon the carapaced beings, all the information he needed stood right in front of his eyes. With the weapon in hand, he hurled it at the robed Abyssal as he would a javelin, aiming for the great sigil on the creature's chest.

He then lunged at the armoured one.

Unarmed and injured, he had but one weapon at his service: his magic, or better, its remnants that still corroded his flesh. Should he be able to tackle the clad Abyssal, he could only hope the decay magic would do what it did usually; corrode everything it came into contact with.

And of course, should all of that fail, then by Kress, he really hoped his Cortosi associate would be able to pull this shitshow together.

Edward Lorain​

 

[Edward Lorain]

When the pulse filled the room, Edward like many of the others had their thoughts muddled and disrupted. He would have stood there in a stupor if not for the faintest touch of...air. There was air here, it was not the powerful gust of wind above the sea, but it was enough. The slightest breeze caressed his fingers before he heard a voice.

Awake!

Ed blinked from his momentary obliviousness to see what had to be the dumbest thing he had ever seen, and he just drove a ship into a titan's eye.

What was Ivan doing, did he not sure see the creature stop a woman in mid-air...with its freaking mind!?! Even so, Edward did not go assist in the fight immediately. After all, what could he do? Instead, he scrambled over to where the Captain had just been.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm just going to-"

He was forced to push the catatonic man out of the way as his hand found the spearhead. Yes, he now had a weapon. Now...what was he going to do with it?

Dingo Ivan Skender

 

[Isander]

The Village of Virspoke​

"Stop! No!" She screamed, waving her arms to get his attention, dripping and bloody bottle still in her hand spraying Abyssal fluids like paint from a brush. As she neared, she skidded to a stop and pleaded, "Please, you can't abandon the beach. We have to hold the beach."

At the sudden cry was Isander torn from his reverie. He sagged, knees slumping into the brackish murk. Exhaustion rolled over him, stole a breath he could scarce afford. He shuddered with it, comporting some semblance of human expression onto him. A blink refocused him, and he craned his neck back to the fire-haired woman's approach. The fervor in her voice stilled him. No longer was he alone.

He cast his gaze along the shore, sticking on the bodies littered in heaps about them. Sand and spray and blood, limbs and nails and metal and cloth. His voice came distant, incoherent. In its stead, he offered her a nod. Acquiescence.

He could hold—

'Isander? Isander!'

Running down the beach, Gruki threw herself into the shallows after them. Water fused around her boots as she came to stand beside her fellow knight. 'Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!' She remarked, smiling fiercely.

The two became three.

He felt an echoed smile tug at his lips, the barest hint of relief through the numbing touch of battle. The familiar face stiffened his shoulders, righted his back, renewed his purpose. The intangibility of his oath had made him vague, ephemeral in how he upheld his duty. Seeing Gruki there, all soaked in blood but not ruined by the horror, gave him reason to find a second vigor. Someone had to make it back to the monastery. Not him, surely. Not now.

Their reunion was cut short.

He grit his teeth, and trudged toward them. “We must away!” he called out to them as he neared. “There is not but doom for us here now!”

A doom he had been so willing to welcome, but a moment ago.

His eyes widened. “Eyes up!”

The three became four. Violence once more fell upon them.

Squaring off, finding perch in the mud, he met the fishborne's charge with a kiss of chipped steel. The blade flanged, slipping off barnacled carapace and dipping into flesh; he tore into the thing, bracing an elbow on its throat to draw back his borrowed blade. It hitched, denying him smooth recourse, and he fell back in a tangle with the carcass. Landing with a splash, he stifled a gasp that sought to suck in the briny shallows. Rolled. Staggered up onto a knee. Ripped the sword free.

Coughing, he found his voice: "The ship!"

He managed to throw out an arm in gesture to the villagers being scuttled onto the vessel. Like cattle to slaughter.

Another of the creatures forestalled him. Between frenetic strokes that sundered the strength in his wrists, he said, "They must be heading to the tower. By my oath, I mean to free as many of them as I can. If I must swim to the spire myself, I will save who can be saved."


Aderyn Verchtegid Gruki Dingo

 

[Jensen]

T H A N A S I S

Jensen threw his arm across his face to shield his eyes as best he could from the ichor that had blinded the dragons back on shore. Valathor too kept his third eyelid across his vision in an effort to protect as much of himself as possible. Of course, there was little either of them could do to protect his wings. The tsonye dragon gave a snarl as the ink-like substance cracked against his wing. Years of battle instinct kept him from bringing the wing into his side and sending them into a headless tumble, but he still banked jaggedly towards the odd shore. Their landing sent sand flying upwards as the dragon hit the sand shoulder first and Jensen managed to leap from the saddle before Valathor rolled wing over wing twice.

"Valathor!" the rider cried, hurrying to assess the damage. His first desperate thought was to try and rub the black substance free but that only burnt his own hands. The green dragon shook himself free of the sand and rolled back to his feet. There was a tenderness to how he manoeuvred the damaged wing but it seemed they were fortunate it had not been worse. "You're okay," Jensen breathed, patting the dragon to reassure himself more than Valathor. The tsonye dragon bent as if to rub his snout against his rider but at the last moment his head snapped up to watch the black dragon and his rider descent. Jensen tried not to grimace at the thought of being stuck in here with the Commander.

"Great, a creepy door," he muttered as the thin door like beam of light appeared. "Not ominous at all," he sighed and clambered back atop Valathor. The dragon rumbled his agreement but they still walked towards it.

 

[Cynefin]

The Delta:

Cynefin continued his approach, gaining on his prey. The hunt had only begun. He got closer.

Ronja Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Aderyn Verchtegid]

Virspoke

---

There were more knights, much to Aderyn's surprise and comfort. She hadn't fully noticed before that the militia had broken, abandoning the beach and the bluffs... maybe even the village as a whole for all she knew. Her bag was gone somewhere, hopefully dropped in the rush to get away but gone for now nonetheless. It was just her, her tattered clothing, and her broken bottle.

Down the beach were lines of captives and brineborn - another thing she had not noticed before in the sheer lunacy that had unfolded around her. But now for just a moment it was serene, a calm which felt... wrong. That the monstrous invaders had more or less abandoned this part of the beach but were continuing their work elsewhere in sight of them was unsettling. She wasn't used to this, the fighting or the blood or the rush of emotions she rarely felt. Nor the confusion brought by simply having no idea what was even really happening.

They were spotted by further brineborn who felt brave enough to advance on them again, and Aderyn sank back behind the soldiers. She was unarmed and unarmored, and by no means a warrior herself. She was just lucky, and sometimes angry.

"They must be heading to the tower. By my oath, I mean to free as many of them as I can. If I must swim to the spire myself, I will save who can be saved."

She sighed. This man was going to get himself killed, but she had to admit that as a healer she couldn't deny that he had a point. They really couldn't just leave these people to whatever was going to happen to them. She could have run before and gotten away entirely, but she hadn't. Why start now?

"I can... I can get us there without swimming," she yelled to those who had now become her protectors if only temporarily.

It wouldn't be easy but she felt the power to do it if she chose. While she didn't have the words for it - her Empath grandmother had never been one for academic rigor - there was a vast stockpile of Desire within her, drawn from men's unwanted advances while plying her other trade, as a musician performing in taverns and inns.

She was pretty sure they could walk on the water.

Isander Dingo Gruki

 

[Gruki]

A body fell to be scooped up by the surf. Slipping a hand beneath Ser Belkian's arm, Gruki hauled him to his feet as the fishmen charged. Bulging eyes, shell-helms, weapons of bone and rusted iron. Monsters. Gruki hated them, hated how they looked- how they made her feel.

Fear and adrenaline made her legs shake as she went forth to meet them in the shallows. The seas were their domain. She was much better on solid ground.

Shoving, she sent her first assailant spilling into the second. A cross-cut smashed the third's weapon aside, left the fish-thing exposed. Her blade punched through meat and muscle and bone. Twisting, she pulled it free, span to sever a head. Side-step, parry, turn, riposte. Steel opened a fish-throat, sent a limb tumbling into the drink.

A flash of red hair bade Gruki turn to seize a fish-thing by its tattered cape. It had been trying to get past her, to get at the woman in the nice dress.

A cutlass panged off her pauldron. A spear glanced her helm.

Heaving with all her might, Gruki threw the Abyssal back towards the sandy shore. She caught the cutlass with the strong of her blade, turned it aside. The spear came again, whip-whipping at her eyes and lesser armoured legs. Snatching the weapon by the haft, she drove the butt into the fish-things belly, doubling it over.

'I think... we might... stand a better chance... assaulting the ship!' There were still some folk yet to be locked in the bilge. Men and women. Souls with some fire left in them, despite the goads and whips. Gruki could see them through the murk and sea-mist. Like cattle for the slaughter. The thought made her shiver. 'But it has to be soon! Like... really, really soon!'

Isander Aderyn Verchtegid

 

[Faye Valimir]

"Distribute these." Faye ordered another medic.

The first dragon was being slowly placed down some ways away, and the dark haired woman shouldered her kit and started to move to meet the riders undoing the restraints on the large god. She tapped the shoulder of a medic, gesturing them to follow. "From what we can see, there is a substance that seems to impede with the natural flight and movement of the dragon."

"And watching them now, there doesn't seem to be any indication of any injuries." The medic observed. He earned an impressed look from Faye, and he managed a shy smile in return. "Harker, we studied in the same class if you can even remember back in that time."

"Yes, it does ring a bell." Valimir perhaps recognised him a little, but was glad to have someone of trust. The classes for medics were not for the weak of heart, as most of their class number had decided to only study the human anatomy. Dragons that died naturally in the Wylds were brought to be examined, and Faye was a careful surgeon even as a student.

They both reached the dragon, and instantly, Faye fastened her gloves tighter. She was quick to start testing the ichor, so dark and with a sheen of it's own, one could mistake it to be smoothed dragon scales. Up close, it was seen for the reality it was; a thick covering that held such a weight to it, and a scent that reminded Faye of something.

"Smells like that sea creature... can't remember the name." Harker exhaled hard, trying to clear his nose. "But it had some debilitating effect to it. Could be the same theory in use here?"

"That is exactly what I am thinking..." Faye tried to pull some of it off the dragon, who breathed slowly and calmly. "Really thick, can't seem to pry any of it away... We are going to need Ransa tears to keep the dragon's muscles from atrophying if we are going with that theory, and then we can start treating. Thankfully the binding ingredient to such a salve is samphire."

Harker lifted his head. Alert. "Which grows up and down this coast." And he was already moving, running towards the sands and searching for the plant with his eyes.

Faye moved to coax the dragon, being careful not to startle. Cathán had been following her over, now slowly advancing and making soft, rumbling chirps to signify the peace. The vials of Ransa tears given by the Princess were large; the vials larger than her palm. "I know magic is hard right now, Cathán, but a little of your help could work in our favour."

 

[Orissa]

"You should be with the medics."

"To hell with that." Orissa scoffed, Pixaelys coming to a pause as he joined the other Gilded Wings. The group sworn to accompany the Princess when leaving the Royal Palace all shared an amused smile with Orissa, knowing she was not one to stay behind.

Cadoc cleared his throat from beside her, sat atop on his white dragon that dwarfed her own Ransa. "Can we assist the Sixth Storm in any way, your Highness?" The white dragon he was bonded to had the unique magic of controlling the air, a factor that proved useful in securing a coveted seat among the Gilded Wings.

Orissa stared up at the darkened cloud swirling in the sky, streaks of heated red lighting up the darkness. This eclipse had proven strange, hindering many magical things such as their bonds with the dragons. A moon dragon's camouflague and a Ransa's helaing properties were not dampened, but the magic of a white dragon had been. It was made known on the flight here, making the small fist of dragons arrive later than usual. If magic were not tampered with, the six of them would have caught a wonderful flight without the wind dragging and slowing them.

The Princess did not wish to cast doubt on her loyal guardian, but it was much too difficult to hide it on the faces of the other guardians. Orissa turned to look at him now, fixing Cadoc with a half-hearted smile. "Save her strength. Let us fly and meet with the Sixth Storm. Assist in their endeavours. If we can help minimise the storm and vortex, perhaps there is a chance to understand what it is we are facing."

Two dragons and their riders fell through the eye, disappearing without a trace. They each witnessed it as their dragons took to the moonless skies, Orissa's heart catching with her breath as her eyes saw it all through the confusion of the storm.

 

[Dingo]

​

---

The spear flies fast, but the armored one moves faster. The metal point strikes against the carapace plate, and slides across the floor.

Like the jaws of a long snouted beast, the armored one’s clawed arm snaps open. Its craggy run aims at the withered Anirian. Black water ripples within the well of the claw’s barrel. Threads of the dense liquid rise from the surface, and fall from the maw’s ceiling.

Ivan slams into the armored Abyssal before the blackwater could coalesce. The magic of decay, that ruinous wake that had surged through the blood of Skender, rippled out. Crashed against the craggy plate of the clad Abyssal. Found no purchase there.

As if the workings of the plate itself, repelled magic.

As Ivan struggles with the armored one, the bulbous one looks back into the room, still leading the Captain away, it darts out of sight, and takes her with it.

Down, so far below the surface of the waves, the Wind cannot whisper its secrets to the bravest progeny of Teth. But a new voice whispers to his ears.

The Voice of the Deep.

Its cold caress guides your cheek. Points your eye. The strange claw of the Abyssal’s armor, opened and yawning, almost looks soft inside. Fleshy. Like the flesh inside a clam, just waiting to be shucked.

---

​

---

Most of the squad of fishmen lay dead upon the surf. The Brineborn, near decapitated, gurgles their last amidst the surface.

Almost seems to laugh at the predicament.

“Walk on water,” he says. “Assault the ship,” a voice like that of a drowned man as he coughs and hacks up the liquids that rush down the pipe of his throat. “It matters not, it means not,” he grins behind the mottled metal of his helm. The rust. Salt eaten and barnacled, only makes the yellow rot of his teeth all the more gruesome. “All goes to the Tower. All goes to the Abyssal. To the darkness. The Aphotic Day.”

From the surf emerged Ser Belkian, gasting for breath, eyes wide. He turns, as if something were still there to grab him. Catches a spear across his plate. The small body behind it, pressed its dense weight behind the pointed weapon. Belkian growled. Grabbed up the haft and kicked the fishman away as he ripped the spear from its grasp. Turned it, and stuck it through scales and ribs with a hard pop.

The last of the fishmen stare wide eyed, cut blades and stab pikes in hand, they hobble back. Turn and flee toward the ship.

Belkian’s eyes widened. “Whatever we do,” he says as he shifts forward, step after step, heaves the spear out. “We must do it fast!” it sails across the air, and falls short of the two retreating. Belkian curses beneath his breath.

Their enemy run headlong towards the ship, and the lines of those villagers and survivors being herded onto the still clanging ship.

The brass bell. Klang-a-klang-klangs across the sunless sky.

---

​

---

Within the Mountain

“Jensen!” Draxton called out from atop his beast. His eyes full of a look, almost like disbelief as the rider and his dragon approach the maw. We are here to kill it! His rigidness seems to scream as Carnifex rubs its head across the sand.

The black ink works itself off, but the dark god rumbles, and trumpets a blast, baleful as it is irate.

Draxton scowls. Grins. Laughs. “Very well, into the belly of the beast we go!”

Carnifex huffs. A rumble from its throat. Almost glad that it would get the chance to let off some of its hate.

On, the dragons and their riders thundered. Into the maw. Into the halls of the Silver Mountain.

Within, the air grew cold as deep water, and the halls grow narrower and narrower. Ahead, there is movement. Those little scuttling creatures carrying a thing above them, almost like ants bunched together. The smell of rotting life fills each breath. Corpses are hung from the walls. Those of the many dead things that had washed ashore.

The little scuttlers hack at them and carry them off. Some semblance of method is clear in how they move about. .

Draxton grins. “It’s almost like a whaling hanger,” he says. “Industrious little buggers,” his brow creased. A grin split across his face. “But little more than chafe,”

A pulse ripples through their minds.

Peace.

It begs.

Before shimmering forms come clear before the two dragons. things no taller than a man gather about, in loose formation. One at the center raises its hands as it steps closer to the two hungry gods before it.

Those around it stand in wait.

A crash of muscle and sound shakes the flesh and scales of Carnifex’s throat.

---

With the Medics

The hunt for hers proves fruitful. Bushels of the plant sighted.

Yet, when the question of magicks arise, the Dragons, so in tune with the forces of the stars and the world, surge with the power of magicks. It is the weak flesh of their mortal riders that struggles to point the wild force of the eclipse’s pull.

---

With the Sixth Storm

Outside the Silver Mountain, before the wall of whirling ink, the Sixth Storm can do little more than whip the winds about the mountain. Try as they might, their dragon’s breath is repelled by the mantle of black substance.

 

[Ivan Skender]

He shifted on top of the Abyssal, his strength draining rapidly as he found himself woefully underprepared to check his opponent. As his magic failed to produce the desired effect, he focused on keeping the thing pinned down, delaying the eventual retaliation until something, or someone, could deliver him from his predicament.

In short, he needed a miracle.

He looked down, and was greeted with an even more distressing sight, as his gaze locked with that of the Abyssal. The creature stared at him from beyond its helmet with a dead stare, devoid of any emotion he knew.

Fuck, that was terrifying. His body was beginning to give out, and all he could think about was how the last thing he would see would be that deep, dark, abyssal stare.

That was when he spied something through the corner of his eye. It was nothing but a flicker in the distance, but soon enough he realised what it was.

- "The spear, Cortosi!" - He called out to the sailor. - "Pierce its eyes!" -

Edward Lorain​

 

[Orissa]

M A L A K A T H

"No use!" Was just another variation of words put together to say things were looking bleak by the other riders.

Orissa gritted her teeth, had set her jaw before scanning the vortex once again, as if it were a puzzle that she needed to figure out how to outsmart.

"Cadoc!" Her voice carried out against the strong gales of wind, reaching the ears of the rider upon the white. "Do you think Olazor can try something? Anything?" Who better to wield a mightier magic than that of a rider's bonded? They were gods in their eyes, there should be better reasons as to why they became so.

Cadoc gave the princess a firm nod, and rider and white rolled into a descent, taking a turn about the vortex. Some minutes later, and more fruitless attempts to battle the black substance, Orissa spied her loyal guardsman signalling.

Orders came in, slowly, but soon enough the Sixth Storm came together, joining the Princess and the Gilded Wings. Dragons readied themselves, some testing their proximity with others, but as one collective, wings beat mightily into the buffeting vortex. Orissa could hear the strength of the force created by them all. It was the perfect symphony Cadoc's white dragon needed. The wind the dragons' wings created became the white's weapon, manipulated to become a silvery needle to begin piercing into the vortex, it's own current making attempt to disrupt the blackened flow of the only obstacle in locating where the Commander and Tsonye rider had gone.

 

[Faye Valimir]

The blind dragon used his bonded rider's eyes to see, taking in the state of the dragon before him. His jaw opened slightly, warmth felt by his bonded, but his tongue tasted the air. Exhausted and uncomfortable, the dragon to be treated put up no fight at the white dragon moved and nuzzled into the dragon's hide. Careful not to touch the scales covered in the substance, at the behest of Valimir, Cathán swelled with his magic.
Exhalations came out in steam, a scent of sulfur and something else pungent, magic was being focused on the key areas of the dragon patient.

Faye watched as her dragon needed no further instruction, as the two had done this many times. She knew not the extent to his healing powers, but believed and trusted in him to know what it was he needed to do. After all, the two bonded when she was near death, out in the wylds and Cathán healed her to full health. There were still remnants of scars at her back, at her hips, but for the rider, it was the reminder of the dragon's greatest gift he could give her when she had already accepted her ill fate.

"Valimir! This is all I could carry." Harker returned, and a bountiful harvest he had brought. Both fists were carrying bunches of the salty and bitter leaves of samphire, and Faye set her medic kit on the ground, making fast work in dosing the different components into a mortar and using the pestle to combine it all, the samphire doing it's job in creating the thick paste.

"Here. Ransa tears. Start with the three vials, and keep watch on their condition after five minutes. I will apply this salve." Faye tore some cloth, wrapped it around one hand to scoop the dark green paste and approached the closest spot on the dragon's side to treat.