Fate - First Reply Unholy redemption

[Koltun]

The Temple of Korabayir - Eastern Amol-Kalit
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A gentle breeze swept through the valley, the soft kiss of its whisper a cool escape from the scorching heat of the savannah. It seemed to carry with it the faint aroma of burning incense, the scent mixing with that of dried grass to craft a perfume so elegant even the best craftsmen of Alliria would have trouble emulating it.

It also bore, however, the sounds of prayer.

Further down the valley, in those last reaches of Imperial territory where the desert made way for the savannah, the temple of Korabayir readied for worship, its bells ringing rhythmically, as its monks declaimed chanted prayers to the heavens, their voices carrying through to the furthest reaches of the vale.

Wholly devoted to Maskat - the Goddess of health of the Annunaki pantheon - this holy place housed the revered monks of Korabayir, renowned healers famous throughout the Aberrasai Savannah and Amol-Kalit. Many who sought their miraculous skills - honed to perfection by their patron deity - were willing to move heaven and earth to have the hallowed priests cure whatever ailments afflicted them, something which carried great honour for the shamans... and even greater wealth.

Indeed, the temple's aura of holiness held such sway, that even the warlike tribes of the Savannah seemed reticent to take a stance against the holy place; the warriors of the wilderness staying their hand in the face of those that had nurtured so many of their sick and wounded back to full health.

Alas, for Korabayir, he was neither a penitent in search of betterment, nor some savannah savage in search of healing after a wrestle.

Koltun crested the hills, glancing upon the temple from atop his great rhino.

The beast shuddered, the scent of the death to come all too well known. For all its importance, Korabayir was guarded by no more than a small militia of devotees of Maskat and of savannah tribesmen, the holy men clearly thinking their temple too hallowed to desecrate.

The Prince of Molthal however, would relish in proving them wrong.​

 

[Autolycus]

There was already someone at the top of the hill.​

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Nobody important. A sidereal elf on a dusty little prayer mat, recumbent and apparently drowsy. The mat was good for more than praying, not that Autolycus had much cause to pray to anyone these days. He angled his head to get a look at the huffing rhinoceros and the half-giant who rode it. It carried an awful stench.​

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Probably the giant did too, but the rhinoceros obliviated it. In any case, he recognized both from the scene they had caused some time ago at an oasis.​

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"Ah. A wonder you should turn up here," Autolycus drawled. He scratched his chin and returned to watching the monastery, "Come to cause more trouble for the locals?"​

 

[Rob Yew]

Rob surveyed the temple that gleamed with golden statues, golden doors, golden offerings. He ran a tongue across his lips and looked up at the giant on the rhinoceros.

The goblin brigand gripped his falchion, rubbing a thumb along the bewitched vulture skull pommel.

Sparing a glance at the elf, Rob spat out a wad of narcotic chewing bark, the dark brown liquid puddling where it landed, then crammed some more in his cheek.

“What orders, lord?”

 

[Koltun]

As if on cue, the rhinoceros relieved itself, expelling a bull-sized pile of excrement dangerously close to the elf's praying carpet. The scent travelled quickly, fully overpowering the faint fragrance of incense and grass.

- "Who the fuck are you?" - He sneered at the Sidereal Elf, his deep voice overcoming the soft clamouring of the breeze. The elf's passiveness, as well as the use of the term locals, hinted that he wasn't with the worshipers of Maskat below. Better this way... for the elf, that was.

He snapped his fingers. Behind him, Rob Yew's enchanted blade would erupt into flames. The red blaze would soon begin to alternate in colour, between the full pallet of the rainbow.

- "Kill them all." - He told his underling, as he drew his massive warhammer. In step with the goblin's weapon, a conflagration roared from the Fyrestone's head in a similar multi-coloured pattern. - "But don't touch the priests. Them we can still put to use." -

The son of Molthal had spent a lifetime observing Menalus' slave-drivers. He knew well enough how to crush a free man into a broken, obedient slave. Should that fail though, then surely there would be plenty of souls between there and the Blightlands that would pay good money for the hallowed healers of Maskat.

- "Today is your lucky day, elf." - He turned back to the strange ascetic on his mat. - "Should you find yourself in need of a leg up, join us and carve out your fortune." -

To the side, he spat out a lump of the same dark chew Rob had.

- "Otherwise stay out of our way." -
Rob Yew Autolycus ​

 

[Autolycus]

Koltun | Rob Yew

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Autolycus wrinkled his nose. Filthy animals, everywhere he went. And the rhinoceros was dreadful as well. He knew better than to make complaints of hygiene to Amol-Kalit's latest aspirant warlord.​

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"Just a simple monk," Autolycus replied, rising to a seated position. "I shall be honored to serve and witness your cause."​

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It was sometimes true that if you waited long enough, someone else would appear and remove your obstacle for you. Being an elf meant he had an abundance of time to waste on waiting. Just like when those other cretins had passed through that oasis.​

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Only, no, those cretins had failed him. Perhaps this time would be better, and he could obtain exactly what he sought from Korabayir's crypts and then some.​

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Autolycus bowed his head in a downright sagely manner, "Some intelligence for you, if it pleases. The monks currently host Lord Nakhtmin and a dozen of his Bronze Claw mercenaries. They've each slain a hundred of the Emperor's finest and near single-handedly kept his forces from even approaching the town of Maraan... Or so it's said."​

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He yawned silently.​

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"No challenge for you, I'm sure. But it is better to be armed with such knowledge."​

 

[Rob Yew]

“On it,” grunted Rob, making a hand signal above his head for some troops hidden in the long grass while he tried to pretend he hadn’t almost dropped his falchion when it literally burst into flame at the half-giant’s gesture. He held the blade slightly out to one side and avoided looking at it.

“Fuck the bronze claws. We got creative on the hiring process for this one.”

Two dozen warriors burst from the long grass of the Savannah at the base of the hill and ran full tilt at the temple doors, a ragged group of frenzied mercenaries: bloody eyed orcs from the Savannah, covering immense distances with every stride and wielding throwing spears and axes; two half-men from the deep desert, their lower halves twisted by wild magic into insectoid limbs that skittered swiftly across the valley, and last came the wild Beast Men of the Savannah, loosing shafts from their long bows as they ran.

A sudden shriek split the air before three massive, scaled forms leaped out of the grass

Oh. Rob forgot about the lizard riders.

Three sand elves from rogue tribes that hated Gerra’s betrayal of their ways launched their lizard mounts at the temple gates.

Rob watched, impressed as the slavering jaws snapped a screaming tribesman penitent up in a spray of blood.

Other forms toppled, arrows sticking from them like strange flowers.

Rob supposed he should do something, so he waved the flaming falchion over his sword and let out a war cry, then remained exactly where he stood, with a little nod to himself.

 

[Koltun]

His features remained still, only the muscles along his jawline tensing and releasing slightly at the chaos that unfolded before him. He remained inscrutable as he heard the elf speak, his expression kept neutral until his upper lip tugged momentarily upwards in a sneer that ultimately failed to materialise.

- “Challenging or otherwise, it matters not.” - He rasped at the elf. - “They all die here this day.” -

Rob's battle cry echoed throughout the ridge, momentarily drawing the attention of the son of Molthal.

- “Give the elf a weapon, Rob.” - He said. - “Let him prove how much he means his words.” - A quick glance up-and-down the slender figure of the Sidereal Elf betrayed a certain degree of condescendence; as though he didn't think the sage had the guts to back up his verbose commitment. His gaze then turned to the goblin.

- “Then meet the rest of us down.” - He shifted on his saddle. - “Both of you.” -

With his free arm he then took out a pocket knife, and slashed a superficial cut across his other arm. The elf and the goblin would both be close enough to hear him utter some sort of prayer in a strange tongue - close enough to the idiom of Molthal, but not quite there.

Among the coarse speak, and the gutural whisper, the name of Kir'uqul would be perceptible. The Demon of Wrath, and Lord of Ire.

As he finished the incantation, the crimson blood that was visible across the length of the cut evaporated, the slash itself healing shortly afterwards.

A blood debt had been contracted, and now he needed to make good on the payment.

He spurred the rhinoceros forward, letting out a battle cry so powerful it drowned even the panicked ringing of the bells that had taken over since Rob had signalled the beginning of the assault. The great beast scurried forth, picking up momentum as it thundered down the hill, trampling everything in its wake. In his descent, Koltun fired a couple of multi-coloured fireballs at the temple, the holy fire exploding on collision against the ancient stone of Korabayir.

He invested against the temple door, the rhinoceros forcing the gateway open with ease, after which he descended into mindless slaughter, wielding the Fyrestone against everything that came across his path. With each kill his movements grew quicker, and his arm stronger; a sign the blood magic was working.

“Consecrate her temple to me.” - He heard the voice of Kir'uqul ring within his head.

It would be done.

Rob Yew Autolycus​

 

[Autolycus]

Koltun | Rob Yew

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"Fuck the Bronze Claws," said the little green-thing, whose name he later determined to be Rob.​

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Autolycus inclined his head, eyes closed as he transmitted his wisdom. "If that is your desire."​

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When he opened them again, the warlord was mutilating himself and chanting in the hideous language of Blight Orcs. He spoke of Kir'uqul, who was among the spirits catalogued by the sidereal elf sages. Not someone he would have elected to conspire with, but he imagined in Molthal there were very little to choose from.​

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Blood spilled and evaporated. Autolycus made a motion like wiping a tear from his eye. Wasteful. He knew little of Kir'uqul, but he wagered he could have put it to better use. Oh well.​

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Only after Koltun charged off did Autolycus dust his robes and slowly stand. He waved away whatever killing implement Rob produced for him, "Unnecessary."​

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He made his way down the slope, past the broken gate, and through the bloodstained courtyard with all the urgency of a man on a garden stroll.​

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[Rob Yew]

Rob shrugged and stuffed the dagger he’d held out to the elf back into a sheath, then trotted down the hill after the long limbed ascetic.

Keeping a good distance between himself and the most dangerous part of the violence, Rob paused only to break off a bit of gold from a statue and slip it into a pocket before stepping over the bodies of the slain.

Looked like the orcs were rounding up prisoners. Good.

 

[Koltun]

Bloody gore quickly came to cover him, the crimson enmeshing itself with his red tattoos, even as it contrasted with his ashen skin.

As the orcs rounded up some of the priests as prisoners, Koltun entertained himself by dispatching the last remnants of the temple's guard that still opposed them. His warhammer crashed against one, the head of the weapon - quite literally - blowing up the man into pieces as the explosive holy fire made contact with the body, sending limb and bone flying in every direction. The last of the Savannah tribesmen was dispatched in a similar manner, with the half-giant crashing the warhammer into the soldier's head, leaving nothing behind but bone and broken brain, where the guard's face had once been.

Most of the complex had been cleared by this point, only the inner temple remaining intact behind a series of make-shift barricades haphazardly erected by the defenders during their panicked flight inwards.

Predictably, these wouldn't last long as Koltun conjured a full-fledged firestorm against the piled wood and broken stone that barred his way.

An enormous explosion would rupture through the air, its blast so powerful it reverberated throughout the grounds for dozens of metres past the point of impact.

As the dust started to settle, Koltun motioned some of the warriors on his side to follow. He expected the inner sanctuary to be crawling with enemies, including the elites of the defence force, as well as the aforementioned Bronze Claw, none of which he had seen yet.

Autolycus Rob Yew​

 

[Autolycus]

Koltun | Rob Yew

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In all the commotion, Autolycus had been lost. It was something to be expected. He was but one simple elf among an impressive lineup of men who were greatly accustomed to violence. Ultimately it was fine - as Koltun picked his way through the rubble into the inner sanctum, Autolycus was waiting inside.​

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There wasn't a scratch on him, save for some detritus that came from the explosion. Ash and wood. He brushed it from one shoulder. "Well fought," Autolycus bowed his head deferentially. "Lord Nakhtmin and his retinue are just ahead, in the main chapel."​

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It was their presence there that had forced Autolycus to wait rather than do what it was he was here to do. No matter to him. He had waited this long, he could wait a little longer.​

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The Bronze Claws were so-named for their eponymous weapon: an enlarged bronze gauntlet, of which the fingertips were filed to an awful point. The gauntlet had a small buckler attached to the forearm, and the wild, unpredictable fighting style of the Bronze Claws saw them make liberal use of it as an off-hand weapon.​

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Their armor was light lamellar. Faces were uniformly obscured by simple shemagh. Their weapons were eclectic - the gauntlet was their only consistency. Presently, they were butchering the savannah orcs that had run in ahead of Koltun. Autolycus observed as one orc had his weapon intercepted mid-swing by a bronze gauntlet, then his throat quickly stabbed clean through with a small dagger.​

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The elf's mouth twitched. Good technique, but wasteful. If you went up through the jaw, into the brain, the resulting... Well, it didn't matter.​

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Nakhtmin was in the thick of action, neatly bisecting one of the half-insect monstrosities Koltun had brought to bear. The large curved blade he wielded was etched with swirling symbols and radiated a faint power. Nobody got terribly far in this business without accumulating at least one magic weapon.​

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But he was an old man, with shaggy grey hair and a long, tangled beard. His gaze met Koltun and he smiled joylessly. If Koltun did not go to him, then he would assuredly go to Koltun.​

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Autolycus dipped his head again. "Good luck."​

 

[Rob Yew]

So, things were like this see - you had a hallway leading into the main chapel. Bodies of orcs and temple guards were everywhere. Some worshippers too, all hacked to bits - these things happened.

Up way ahead were the orcs, getting slaughtered by the Bronze Claws. Looked like the Claws had some Sereti ogres among their number, blue orcs of Kherkhana. Proud warriors them, huge. They'd their two-handed horse killing swords and they were massacring the smaller savannah orcs like fucking animals. And of course the old man of the mountain, Nakhtmin himself.

A little ways down the hallway was Koltun and his bodyguard. Molthal orcs. Different breed entirely, them. Not as large as the blue fellows, but sturdy, wearing the Molten Hall's mass-produced rough steel swords and armor. Wicked blades them. Atra-mentous. Probably poisoned.

And see even further away from that action was Autolycus, the imperturbable elf.

But take more steps back. Then a few more. That's it, now you're getting the picture. Yes, all the way from the dying, least as fars away as could be without bein' too obvious, was Roblin Yewthorn III. Thinking he was safe. Wondering how to put out his fire engulfed falchion without offending the half-giant.

That was when he felt a cold hand on his shudder. Rob gave an involuntary shoulder and looked up with big yellow eyes.

"Eh?"

A tall human wearing more jewelry than Rob had ever seen on one person looked down at him. Course, he couldn't see his face for shit on account of the man's giant, gleaming, golden mask - which bore a giant ruby at the base of a series of spikes. But the hand placed on his shoulder was so bedecked in golden bangles and braceletes that you could hardly see the copper skin beneath. The man wasn't wearing a shirt either, just this dark red skirt. So Rob could see the rest of the piercings too. Nipples, bellybutton, all the usual suspects. N' all of them studded with precious gems. Rob had a keen eye for gems, you see. Something of an afficionado. He spotted yellow sapphires, rubies, diamonds, and opals.

With a growing sense of dread, he nodded amicably.

"Ehm, m'lord, 'scuse me." He held his falchion away from them both, the fire still roaring along its length, and gestured at it with his hand and a little helpless shrug. "Sorry bout the fire sword. You here for Prince Koltun?"

"An astute observation, green one."

"Aheh," Rob chuckled nervously. "He's uh, he's down there." He waved down in Koltun's direction, where all the action was happening.

"I see. Thank you."

Rob felt a wash of relief as the hand left his shoulder and the man glided down the hallway toward the clash of swords and screaming.

Sidling up alongside Autolycus, Rob whispered, "What the fuck is a Thakathi Sorcerer doing here?"

 

[Koltun]

His blood boiled as he charged into the inner courtyard. With the blood gifts of Kir'uqul coursing though his veins, enhancing his every movement, he stood ready to face the battle to come.

But first...

He tightened his grip around the hilt of the Fyrestone. A faint silver aura shone around it, enveloping the weapon briefly before the half-giant brought the warhammer crashing down against the stone pavement. From the point of impact, a series of fire rays fanned forward, growing into veritable flaming curtains, and splitting the battlefield into a number of neatly-delimited shapes. Within these, the bronze claws had been broken up into a handful of smaller groups, separated by the multi-coloured fires.

Divide and conquer.

As a case in point, one of the Kherkhana orcs tried to jump past the flaming curtains to charge at the half-giant... only to be blown to smithereens as the blaze made contact with its blue skin. Koltun motioned the Molthal orcs that had caught up with him towards one of the groups, while the remnants of the rag-tag group of mercenaries and adventurers that had since joined him was likewise urged forward against another clump of Claws. In the distance, even Roblin and Autolycus would find themselves facing off against a couple of the bronze mercenaries.

As for Koltun, he started to move against the main group: that of Nakhtmin, as well as of a handful of warriors that had remained by his side. Before he engaged, he still managed to spy a conspicuous figure through the corner of his eye. Though he wouldn't have the time to cast a proper glimpse at the newcomer, the Prince of Molthal would certainly be able to pick up on the golden glow, as well as the persistent glimmer that seemed to accompany this new figure.

A problem for later, though. Whoever, or whatever, this was, it didn't seem to be behaving aggressively and, so long as no new hostiles attacked them from the rear, he would rather focus on the problem at hand first.

He charged at the first of the bronze claws, manoeuvring his warhammer upwards as he assaulted the soldier. By this point, the blood magic had worked him into a frenzy; his movements were lightning quick - at least for a half-giant wielding a colossal warhammer - and his brute force unmatched. The bronze claw, stuck between the fiery chasm, and the raging enemy striking against him, still attempted to block - a fine block, given the circumstances - however this soon proved a futile attempt. The Fyrestone broke past the mercenary's defence with relative ease, its massive head of molten black rock crashing into the plate armour of the man, and sending him flying over the fire curtains that burned all throughout the yard and against the walls of the inner temple itself. The body smashed against the stone with a sickening thud, that seemed to echo throughout the small battlefield.

That was when Koltun felt a piercing pang of pain erupting from his right flank. Looking down, he saw one of the bronze gauntlets buried onto his lateral torso, just above his hip. He maneuvered around, attempting to catch this second foe with a sweep of his warhammer, but ultimately failed. Quick as though he may have been, the large, red-headed colossus was still not that speedy, when it came to facing off against smaller opponents.

He growled past the pain that now gripped him, and charged at this new foe, to whom a second soldier soon came to join. The two circled around the half-giant, dodging his attacks nimbly, while taking any and all slips in his posture to attempt to take a snipe at him. Their aim, no doubt, was to tire him into submission; a good strategy without a question, but one he was more-than-used to dealing with. As the two bronze claws retreated from him, his attacks became broader, his sweeps longer and his steps wider, as he corralled his enemies against one of the walls of fire he had erected earlier. The bronze claws soon found themselves with no further room to retreat, and once they did, the Molthal half-giant unleashed a thundering storm of multi-coloured flames against the two of them.

Their screams - as their flesh burned and exploded away from their dying forms - overpowered even the loudest sounds of battle, as the afflicted cries of the dying submerged the courtyard in their distressing symphony.

As the bronze claws burned, Koltun turned around, and found himself face-to-face with the leader of the mercenaries, the old man of the mountain himself: Nakhtmin.

Rob Yew Autolycus​