You sleep. Even if you have no need to, you sleep and you dream of a classroom and a man standing at the front. He calls your name and something in you begins to grow under his attention. You barely remember it later for a classroom is a classroom is a class room. It is your place to learn in such.
It disappears and your rest deepens to something beyond. The clarion call of warhorns fill you ears and you open your eyes to the battlefield. Earth and sky are full of bodies readied and waiting to meet in bloody congress.
It is only the first skirmish in the war to come. It is a declaration of intent and initial show of power. The chains of subjugation, the vicious ruthlessness required to do more than hurt your fellow Fears, those are to come. For now it is enough to simply hurt them more than they will ever hurt you.
A lesson begins.
All those with a dark seed find themselves living the memories of commanders and soldiers in a battle that took place thousands of years ago. They may be on opposing sides. If it's viable, they may be witnessing the memories of an ancestor. Kings and Queens find themselves in higher leadership positions but all of them are in a command position. You may solo, brief drabble, rp, or even pvp for this. You may create disposable characters and npcs for this. The level detail and how in depth this becomes is up to you. This dream continues for several weeks. While awake, the dream and memories grow vague, boiling down to "had a dream about some battle."
Nyxtsuki Moon
Blade Kuroda
chirigami
PhiferWolf
AstaraeI
Beejoux
chimarii
Ol-j-man
Nothing Yet
lilwolfpard
Melodine Cantus
Enoh Love
Face your demons
Posted: Sat Jun 21, 2014 9:35 pm
Quote:
OOC INFORMATION Fighting for: ??? Power struggle ala Game of Thrones?
A Amrita Lock Aymet Marzena Hadiyya Elysiel - 1 force.
B Shun Maple Thack Uru Remi Mort Night Amarus - 2 allied forces?
Threads: [dark seed] thread is battle grounds, if not in active battle post [BASE CAMP 1/2] at top of post so they know you're off limits ~ if possible/interested, please link outside PRPs in this post (see nyx/enoh/??? to edit in!)
PVP: 2d8-4 for aoes of up to 6 people, 2d12-4 for 1v1
Today was a day for peace. At least that was the supposed plan. The war had been raging for some time now. Many lives had already been lost on both ends. And Date Nakamura, leader of the Nightshade Company, had to look out for his men. His ranks were about twenty five strong; a small group, but one that was not to be taken lightly because of it. He made sure those who fought under him were highly skilled. No one would hire him ore his Company otherwise.
The air was understandably tense, as longstanding enemies were now to meet to talk of peace. A number of leaders from both sides to be here, along with a handful of guards. A position he, himself, was taking up, to help make sure things go smoothly. The rest of his men were off elsewhere. There was no need for the whole damn company to be present currently.
In the very least, the rendezvous was somewhere fairly neutral between both parties. Even if this was just for negotiations, it was probably for the better that neither side had too much of an advantage. Still, Date wasn't really sure if this truce meeting would really get anywhere. Then again, the details weren't really important to him. He was just a hired blade, after all. He had a few doubts that things were going to end well anyway.
There he stood outside the tent, next to one of the others who had been stationed there. The council was within, but the opposing party had yet to arrive. Other guards were positioned elsewhere, placed to make sure no trouble would come up, as well as to keep an eye out for when the rest would arrive.
"Bah. They're late. Who the hell do they think they are?" the other guard asked. She was a fairly large wrath demon, "Other side musta gotten cold feet. Maybe they don't care too much 'bout working out a deal after all."
Date shrugged lightly, letting out a sigh, "Figures."
Soon, indeed. He glanced up as a shadow circled over head for the moment. Further up, he could see a falcon soaring above. His gaze narrowed as he stared up at it, then reached into his pouch to fetch a pocketwatch. Noon. He clasped the watch shut, then tucked it away. The bird overhead soon flew off elsewhere.
"Eh? What time is it?" the wrath demon asked, noting the gesture.
Another sigh left the Reaper, "Just about time things to get started, I believe."
"Started? The other guys ain't eve-"
She didn't get a chance to finish her words. In an instant, a blade and chain had appeared in Date's hand, the former which plunged straight into her throat. The other hand came around to cover her mouth, muffling any screams or whatnot that might have come out. He waited for her to go still and for her body to vanish before straightening up. Off in the distance, he could see a bolt strike one of the monster guards between the eyes, taking him out quickly as well. The rest of his men were around now, and they should be able to take care of the rest of Sauda and Malka guards. Rolling his shoulders, he pushed aside the tent flap and moved into the tent. Immediately, all eyes were on him.
"Have they arrived yet? This was supposed to start a half hour ago!" one shouted. He recognized them as being one of the war advisers.
"Afraid not. We've just received word they won't be coming today after all," he stated. The war adviser's eyes widened at this, looking incredulous, "They have a whole lot of nerve pulling this sort of s**t on us."
Date took that moment to move in, shadowstepping behind the man and sliding his blade into his back. It was almost too easy. Just like that, chaos began to erupt in the tent. After pulling the blade out, he gripped the weighted ring that was attached to the other end of the chain of his kyoketsu shoge and swung it at one of the others who had begun to run at him. In the tent he couldn't get a full swing going, but he was able to fling it out to knock them in the gut quickly. It gave him enough time to move in and give a more dire strike. The others were all on their feet, getting ready to charge at him. Several arrows flew through the canvas. Most missed their mark. A few managed to strike true. Some slicing noise could be heard outside, accompanied by the snapping of rope. Then, a great gale was summoned from somewhere outside, sending the tent's canvas up and out of the way. All around were the rest of the Nightshade Company, armed and ready. They took little time to descend on those that had been within. Blood quickly splattered to the ground as the slaughter truly began.
Now that he was in the open properly, Date begun to swing the weighted ring before sending it flying towards an undead's head. It wouldn't take him out of the fight for long. And quite frankly, he felt that he should leave this one to his men.a Further back, he could see Sauda. After his strike to the undead, he shadowstepped over to her and prepared to take her out of this game. Just before he could make contact, there was a flash of steel mixed and a spurt of pain. He brought up the chain defensively as he was trying to assess what had caught him.
He soon realized the cause; Dunbhan, one of the lower ranked soldiers that had come along. He should have been taken care of earlier, but one way or another, he must have slipped through the cracks. Date gritted his teeth and stared as the black armored ghost stood between him and Sauda. Blood was streaming down his own face, partially blinding him for the time being. Backing away, he pushed himself up to his feet and stared down the two. He’d just have to cut them both down, once he saw the proper opening to do just that. There will be no survivors, if he and his Company could help it. There weren’t many of them left at this point anyway. Date began to swing the weight to help keep Dunbhan at bay while he figured out when and how he should strike. He soon noticed some of the other survivors moving around to join the two. Perhaps they were trying to stick together to cover each other’s defenses. All it was really doing was allowing his men to surround them. At least, that was what he thought. Then, before he knew it, one of the demons. Soledad, had created a large wall of water… one that soon came crashing down upon himself and the rest of the Company, effectively washing them back and away from the survivors. By the time they could recover, their quarries had managed to warp away.
He wasn’t sure how they would take his betrayal, but at this point that didn’t matter too much anymore. Gold was still lining the pockets of he and his men. What he had been paid before hadn’t really been enough. Date looked out for his men and his men only. If that meant switching their loyalties to the other side, so be it.
Posted: Wed Jun 25, 2014 6:39 am
The sounds of struggled breathes, scuffing of boots along the ground, the rubbing of leather or metal against one another. The female sat on a barrel, examining her fingers with mild interest in the slight break in one of her nails. Her job was simple; occupy some of the guards and to make sure not to get caught. Simple. To occupy the guards was simple, not to get caught was also simple, especially if it meant that the guards weren't able to say anything should they spot her. But that was the thing, she let them spot her, and, in turn, she made certain that they could not make the alarm call of an intruder. She sighed as she fanned her hand out in front of her, "To think, you managed to break one. Actually catching me off guard. I guess I was enjoying myself a bit. Oh well, what's done is done." The monster spoke to a fear-struck boil, eyes wide and watery. Flicking her fingers, the shadows covered her finger anew, oh the miracles of form-fitting abilities.
All around her, five guards strung up by inky darkness, tendrils creeping up from the ground, wrapping around their limbs like hands around their necks - tight and bound. Shadow Bindings. She mused as soon as her shadow touched theirs that it meant the end for them. She knew that as long as there was light, she was safe. Around her feet were two more guards - lifeless and still - long protrusions of darkness sprouted from their backs like quills. Shadow Javelins. She was annoyed that they didn't struggle as much as she had wanted, her prey falling so easily that the hunt wasn't even fun at all. No matter, the task was completed; no one set any alarms and the area contained. Date should be happy that she didn't go rampaging.
Des'em was a young beauty, her fair features framed by dark hair that was braided over and over upon her head, flowing down her back. Her figure was petite and lithe, clad in a long, dark cloth - ragged and patterened - wrapped around her many times and even forming a hood for herself. Little skin showed off of her as she covered herself with her own shadow to hide her true form; a large dark canine. She was quiet, she was quick, but when it came to her natural form, she was deadly, merciless, and brutal. Savage. Rising to her feet, she glared at the ground, differentiating her own shadows from the natural.
"About time." She mused as she flicked her wrist, the strung up guards falling still as they were slowly lowered to the ground before the female disappeared into the shadows to meet the rest of the company.
It was outside the tent that she emerged from the ground, standing beside the others, waiting for their signal from Date. Crossing her arms, she was growing impatient, her shadow ebbing and waning from beneath her, itching to lash out onto something - someone. The gust of wind that blew the marque made her lips spread to a toothy smile.
Let the fun begin, Date.
PhiferWolf
Loyal Werewolf
Offline
chiickadee
Princess Hoarder
Offline
Posted: Thu Jun 26, 2014 10:09 pm
Lock slept deeper than he had in a long time. The shadowy reaper always had trouble sleeping without the sounds of the underground cave, but tonight he was unusually easily lulled by the hum of Amityville's walls. His sleep was far deeper than that of any normal sleep. This was something far more sinister.
It started with darkness. That certainly wasn't unusual- most of the time when he slept there was nothing but darkness. It actually took him a moment to realize that this darkness was a separate kind of darkness. Something sentient. It pulled at his limbs, inviting him to join the darkness. The odd thing? Lock did.
---
Warhorns. Dunbhan hated the jackdamn warhorns. Even as a ghost they were annoying, superfluous.
He looked to the mirror, adjusting his armor. His sword was by his side, but then, there was no way for it to go elsewhere. He was attached to it- it was his lifeblood. Such was the life of a haunt.
Shaggy white hair was brushed back under his helmet, which looked more his body than his body actually did. His skin was translucent, his organs as well. Dunbhan had never actually known what his body looked like on its own, considering any time he looked at it, it was just a reflection of the area below his arm.
Still, his polished armor shone brightly, something he was quite proud of. At this point he was just a lowly footsoldier. But even footsoldiers had their uses. His commander had told him multiple times about how he was going to die today. He would die for his queens. He thought that very funny, considering as a ghost, he was already dead.
His commander had always been a bit nutty though. Today wasn't even a day for war. The two sides had arranged some sort of truce meeting. He was merely there for show- all he had to do was "guard" the side of the tent. That meant standing there for Jack knew how long, waiting for it to be over so he could go home and get some rest for once. Silly nobles and their petty politics.
---
He looked somewhat hesitant, finding himself in an awkward place, standing over the queen like this. How in the world had this happened so quickly? One moment he was picking his teeth, debating if the cook would let him have a second serving for dinner, the next they were being bombarded by enemy blades. Sparks flew as magic and metal clashed, a sharp, sudden attack. His own sword was unsheathed, glowing brightly, casting its pale blue light on the surrounding area.
Treason.
His sword met with another's as well. How had it happened? Why had it happened? These questions were perhaps for philosophers hundreds of years later. At the moment, Dunbhan's mind was only on one thing.
Protect the queen.
He grunted as the man called Date approached him. "No closer," he grunted. Of course, if verbal warnings were the solution to this problem, Date wouldn't have been attacking in the first place. The two clashed weapons, Dunbhan feeling the weight of each blow on his sword, Date unrelenting. The queen stood behind him, and he dutifully protected her- wordless understanding between the twosome. He was her soldier, she was his queen.
Other soldiers followed in, slowly boxing themselves in a corner to Date's ambush. Dunbhan shouted for the others to spread out, but the words were drowned by an enormous blast from Soledad. Dunbhan stepped over the queen, sheltering her from the water.
"Apologies," he said gruffly, removing himself from being overbearing. When he finally looked up, Date's crew had been completely washed away from the scene. Dunbhan could still see their bodies only a small distance away, but it was enough for the soldiers to regroup and cover their asses.
Dunbhan's glowing eyes fell on Date. Dunbhan had suspected betrayal for some time from the man, but he thought the proposal of peace would be enough to quench the man's inner fire. Gold then, Dunbhan suspected. The only thing a soldier had was either money in his pockets or the virtue of his word.
Looking to the queen, Dunbhan gave her an apologetic look. He knew what this would mean. The time for peace had ended. They could not turn their backs on betrayal. This meant the war would continue- possibly for eternity. Such treachery never fell on a turned cheek. No, they would return the fire. They would make those who might harm them weep for mercy.
He gripped his sword a bit tighter, unsure of what this would mean. Shadows engulfed everything, the queens finally having summoned the power to teleport them elsewhere, far, far away.
Regardless of Date's betrayal, Dunbhan knew his oath and his orders. He would follow the queens, even to his death. "Your grace?"
---
Personal knight to the queen? Why? For doing his duty?
Dunbhan didn't understand this strange woman. He now had fancier armor. It was a pleasant step up, he supposed. Surprisingly enough, it didn't weigh him down either. It was scaled, built for speed and protection rather than bulky dullness.
"Thank you, your grace," he muttered. This honor felt wrong, forged in the blood of betrayal.
Posted: Tue Sep 30, 2014 8:09 pm
[ a different battle ]
She had given you a gift, extending to you an invitation on crushed black velvet to the best and most exclusive club. You had followed along like you were something small, opening up the envelope only to realize that your membership predated her own.
How were you to know, though, that you were were so much more? The memories were lost to you, sealed in the lock at your bosom, eternal. But now, as the curtains rise, you know this to be true.
As sure as the moon is orange, you know that before any of these other scarelings had come into existence, you had been a weapon of a design most malevolent.
The stage is set. The dream begins. You remember.
--
The sirens wail in the distance, a warble both enchanting and familiar. They invoke. Horns of war, a call to action to both Elysiel and all she commands. Her body holds taut, caught in that moment between an arrow's notch and release.
She does not yet give the signal.
The war is on the horizon, but it is not here just yet. This is only the beginning, a whetting of the blade as it dives into the precursor of a sacrifice. There is a restlessness in her, cradled in the crux of each of her six wings. From feathertip to core, Elysiel aches. The hounds of war have been loosed, and their barking cries echo up from the valley below. Darkness chases their footsteps, and a shadow descends. It is infinite.
She does not yet give the signal.
But she does move, liquid smooth. Elysiel is nothing if not a streak of violet violence across the twilight sky, with shade in her wings and sorrow in her heart, gentility wrapped in barbs so secure. Beneath her the forces ready, as do her comrades, as do her enemies. (Sometimes, she wonder if they might be one and the same. Most of the time, she is unconcerned with the pettiness of those that walk and do not fly.) There is no shortage of soldiers on the ground, in the sky, beneath the earth, within the water.
She does not yet give the signal.
It is coming, like the crescendo and the climax and the turning point, for that is all she will need. The moon rises, casting a foreboding light upon the skirmishes below. She tracks the tactical advantages not by calculation, but by instinct alone, guided by the righteousness vested in her that allows her to comprehend the movements of both sides. (The knowledge granted to her through treachery, through treason and betrayal.)
She does not yet give the signal.
Her unhallowed Host circle like vultures in the stratosphere above, cloaked by cloud and protected by artifacts of power so immense. A witch that rides the sloped back of a serpent calls down a storm. Rain begins to fall in a torrential out pour, the shadows of the clouds condensing further. Elysiel turns to her right hand, where his giant form spins in place so fast it looks as though he is merely vibrating in the air. The wheels within wheels turn, and his many eyes that glitter with the purple sheen of her banner glitter in the night, a beacon of attention for her airborne cavalry. He is fallen, but from the clan of Ophanim rather than Seraphim.
Elysiel, with her nails filed to points and teeth treated similar, raises an elegant hand. From her palm pours a shadowy conspiracy of ravens, wispy things that descend at speeds that mount and mount. Reveriel ceases to keep himself airborne, sinking like a stone in water through the atmosphere, racing the ravens to the valley. The wheels within wheels within wheels continue to spin, and as the ravens collide with this perpetual motion, their influence is spread across the sky like a seeking plague.
It is the signal.
Her forces rear up: dragons, harpies, phoenixes. Her soldiers, perched upon the former, ready to fire: witches, necromancers, shamans. An entire flock of Fallen Angels, of various clans and sources, both demonic and ghostly. They are all her Host, hers to utilise to the fullest potential of their abilities.
Elysiel, known to friend and foe alike as She Who Lingers and The Midnight Star, is a force to be reckoned with. She is an Agent of Mordred and a Conspirator of Merlin, these two facts not at all mutually exclusive. Today, she will decimate her enemies, and be decimated in turn.
It matters not. She opens her mouth and begins to sing a lullaby, sweet and serene, and it is one her Host knows by heart: whether they were pulled from their homes and livelihoods or their parents, they know.
Her enemies may keep their war horns, their drums, their siren calls. Elysiel's choir serves better than them all.
