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bloodvbonerpg · 6 years

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Torn Asunder

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. - T.S. Eliot

All are witness to the storm. Some from the safety of their homes, but many come to stand and bask in it in person.

It doesn’t arrive in small drops that slowly accumulate. No one person feels it before another. It arrives in a sheet that appears like a fog over the horizon; an ominous being that seeks to plunder, pillage, and take from all who have gathered. From the West it comes as dark clouds and the wall of water. Fear gathers in their eyes and in their hearts and despite it all the storm does not abate. It has come to devour, and it will take what it is owed.

The farmers brace themselves first, wondering why they ever hoped for a rain. Some wonder if this was their fault, braced in their homes with others, watching the windows shake and walls creak. The first flash of lightning illuminates the almost pitch evening.

A child wails, and thunder shakes the heavens.

What was once a thriving community of walkways are now ditches made to clear the water out of town. The Town Hall is boarded up with scrap metal and wood. The wind breaks apart wooden platforms and while some get carried away, others are lodged in the mud, sinking further into the ground.

Those who wished to witness nature’s beautiful creation now flee for their homes--for their lives. There is no sun, there is no sky. There are only clouds and bursts of lightning, followed by the calls of above for penance and the shaking of the earth.

The storm has begun, and the time has come.

Keeper Heshept’s Home - Sunset

The Keeper paces back and forth, her figure illuminated by five dim, flickering candles.

Thunder makes the house shake, and she grits her teeth.

Each candle, quickly plastered together with borrowed wax, bears the smear of blood and is bound by twine and nightshade. The shadows cast along the wall twist and morph into vile, wicked things. Things Ducal Heshept dare not look upon.

“Are you nearly finished?” she hisses, and turns to a gaunt figure; a young man who hasn’t seen the light of day or the stars of night since his Tribe arrived in the walls of Sanctuary a month ago. Dark circles ring his eyes and he lets out a shaking breath, his hands stretched out before him. They tremble, dirt-crusted nails haloed by the firelight.

With a whispered word Ducal cannot hear over the raging winds outside, the flames extinguish and plunge the pair into darkness. Ducal wrings her hands together, dry knuckles cracking under immense pressure. Despite the chill of the oncoming storm sweat lines her brow and the wrinkles on her face. Her tongue as dry as the dirt beneath her feet. But that will not last long.

The first rain was a herald of evil--a sign of what was to come.

As her withered eyes adjust to the night, a voice rasps to her from the darkness.

“It is done.”

Outskirts of the Vampire District - Night

Together, Anton Dashep and a team of five men begin pushing on a fallen platform, trying to use the mud to slicken their way. Rain pours into the hole of a Vampire’s ruined home, the creature yelling in frustration and trying desperately to grab spare pieces of wood to rapidly repair the hole before daylight will come again

Anton uses all of his might to push again, a chill running down his spine as another flash of lightning illuminates the night. But when he pushes, he finds himself the only one doing the labour.

Rain and sweat plastering his hair to his brow, Anton stands in the mud and looks up at the men with a glare.

But their attentions are turned down the alley, where a man stands, face covered by a soaked black scarf. He nods to them once, and disappears around a row of buildings.

Anton watches in confusion as the men take black cloths and tie them around their faces. They turn back to him, pulling hammers and knives from their pockets.

“We aren’t here for you, Anton, but we will fight you if you stand in our way,” says one.

“Sanctuary will never work. Heshept is right.”

A sickening miasma fills the air. Secrets previously kept, now released.

“Keeper Heshept,” explains another, “she’s right about the Upyr. They’re monsters. It’s only a matter of time before they devour us all. We need to stop them first. We need to kill the Bone King.”

They turn and begin to head, en masse, towards the Town Square. The men are resolute in their newfound ideas, ideas put in their heads by Ducal Heshept.

They disappear into the rain.

The platform is abandoned. Anton and the Vampire are abandoned. The storm is abandoned.

All around Sanctuary they gather. Men and women, Vampires and Humans, all marked by the same black cloth across their mouths. They are not for glory or for shame. They are not marked by who they are or what species they are, but rather what they have chosen to do on this the first night of the storm that will bring the world to its knees.

It is here that Ducal Heshept has decided to change the world in a state of revenge. By erasing one man, she will change the tide of the storm and, with it, the future of the world. For no Court can survive without its King.

Among the Humans walks Neyon Bek, his hands trembling in the cold, but his gaze resolute as he watches the dark tower of the Museum illuminate in front of a flash of lighting. Steel grips in his heart. He isn’t ready, but he will go forth.

Among the Vampires walks Zion Kellen-Child, silent as a shadow, hair dripping water into her face, a hunger deep-set into her eyes. Now is the time for the shedding of blood; not for the sake of hunger but for the sake of the slaughter itself, and every bone in her body sings for it.

Beside her, Ragar Wolfgang-Child steps forth. Behind him rise his seven Children, ready to follow their Maker into a new world; a world free of Upyr and the Hollow Throne.

They intend to kill the beast by cutting of its head. First, they will kill the Bone King; Gabriel Albescu. From there, his most trusted will fall. When all the Upyr of Sanctuary have been wiped out, those who stand with Heshept and hers will march towards the Bone Court and take care of the rest. Without their King they will be scattered, meaningless, nothing. Their numbers will mean little, and the sacrifices made in the name of the fight will mean everything.

A young woman, Ragar-Child, steps forward, whispering into her Maker’s ear.

“Why here,” asks she, “why now?”

Ragar, eyes focused on Town Hall, lifts his chin proudly. “The world does not wait for permission to be torn asunder, child. It simply will be.”

“So she knew of the Bone King, she planned this.”

“I don’t care if she did or didn’t. This will give us everything we’ve ever needed.”

The girl purses her lips.

“And… Our King?”

A grin slithers onto Ragar’s lips. “My father will have everything he has ever desired.”

Town Hall - Night

Ducal will not be denied entry to the Tribunal again.

“We demand you open your doors and give me the body of my fallen and his murderer,” she cries out, voice roaring over the crack of thunder, the blade in her hand rusted, but deadly.

“Give us the Upyr!”

Ducal raises her blade and her words are met by the cheers of her Tribe.

The doors do not budge.

“Give us the Upyr!”

Beside her, the sullen Wicked walks, weak feet trudging up the steps. He slips on the rain-slicked stone and begins to plummet, but an invisible force stops him in the middle of the air and rights him without a whisper on the howling wind.

Ducal snarls and her grip tightens on her blade.

“You would dare protect these murderers?! They have tortured, kidnapped, and assaulted my people for generations! They killed Greagoir right in front of all of us! And yet you would hide them in safety?! No more!”

Behind her the cheers turn into angry yells from the Humans of Tribe Heshept.

Ragar and Zion exchange looks, but remain silent.

Ducal screams into the thunder and lightning.

“No more!”

She steps back.

With a raise of his gaunt hand, the Wicked blasts the door to splinters that fly as easily as leaves on the wind. All around the assembled mob duck and turn away to avoid collision, but in their hearts burns a righteous fury that has brought them over the edge of running away.

Together the Wicked and Ducal step into the Hall, Ducal using the man as a shield. Taken aback by shock, those inside are unprepared by the presence of the hidden Wicked and his abilities, heightened by the power of a spell and blood.

Sunken-in eyes flicker around the barely-lit room, and with a flick of his wrist, the Wicked waves his hand over Siobhan Thamos-Child, Wolfgang Arcturus-Child, and Ayanna Cadeyrn. The three flinch and cry out in pain, before slumping to the ground in an unconscious state.

Ducal, however, has her eyes trained on Milena Ivanov, standing before the corpse of Greagoir.

Despite Ducal’s wicked advantage, the power of the spell does not last long, and the Wicked collapses to the ground. And without him, Ducal is powerless against Milena’s age and experience. The Duchess of Ash flees for her life, leaping across the rooftop of Town Hall and away from the mob with one thought in mind.

She must get to the King, before all is lost.

Long River - Night

Gabriel Albescu hears them approach before he sees them, much like the storm itself.

The River has already begun to flood and yet the Bone King stands at the bank, watching the tide rise and fall with a strange look of wonder upon his weathered face. Despite the darkness, he does not fear them, and knows by the smell of them that they are the ones who should be afraid, and rightfully so.

One of the members of Tribe Heshept lunges, a wet cry in his throat.

“For Greagoir!”

He wields a rusted knife that Gabriel easily evades, moving to the side. With an easy push the man plunges into the River and is lost in the churning water.

The other is less brash and takes his time, lunging but stepping back repeatedly. The Bone King tires of his games quickly and attacks.

A flash of lightning blinds his vision, and Gabriel missteps. The Human takes his chance, and slices his knife along the King’s gut.

Blood sprays across the foam. Gabriel’s eyes go wide. In an instant the Human’s head topples to the ground, rolling several feet away from his body. Gabriel vanishes, splatters of blood marking his path towards the Museum.

Welcome to Blood V. Bone’s Fourth Event and Season One Finale: Torn Asunder. This event will be taking place from May 30 to June 15th.

Terror and anarchy have turned Sanctuary upside-down.

Despite everything the Upyr have done in the past, they are a vital key to maintaining the order of Sanctuary and the Tribunal, and no one is without guilt at any point in their lives.

And it isn’t just members of Tribe Heshept who are after the Upyr. Citizens on both sides, such as Neyon Bek, Ragar Wolfgang-Child, and Zion Kellen-Child have sided with Ducal on the matter and have broken Sanctuary’s Rules, deciding to attack the Upyr in trying to overthrow the Bone King.

It’s no longer a matter of species against species, but a matter of bringing everyone together. Has the past year proven that the future of the world is more important than any former bad blood can be put aside for the good of all? Can those left that are loyal to Sanctuary put a stop to Ducal and the traitor’s plans?

With the storm flooding the town and the citizens flooding the streets, no one is safe from the chaos that Ducal has decided to bring down upon Sanctuary’s head. And the storm will prove to bring upon greater changes than simply those in loyalty. When the clouds finally part, Sanctuary will not be the same.

But why is she doing this? Why now? What will happen to Gabriel? Will the Upyr survive?

#c; ayanna cadeyrn #c; wolfgang arcturuschild #c; gabriel albescu #c; milena ivanov #c; anton dashep #c; zion kellenchild #c; ragar wolfgangchild #c; neyon bek #c; ducal heshept #c; greagoir (tribe heshept)#bvbplots #plot: torn asunder #bvbplot: s1

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a-boros-named-seamus · 7 years

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The Dawn Breaks

As I flew, the voice, Avacyn, told me of her world. Of the beauty and the horror. The light and the shadows it cast.

She told me of her creator, Sorin Markov. Of the strange otherworlder named Nahiri.

Of the vampires, created from an angel slaughtered. Of the Werewolves, and how their duelling natures twisted them.

The countryside sped by below, rolling plains giving way to ancient forests.

"What do we face?" I asked her, knowing that she was far more adept at interperiting the prayers that murmered in my mind like the background of a busy market.

Instead of words, images welled up.

Horrible, dark images.

Skaabs. Horrid, patchwork undead things. Corpses stitched together in a horrid imitation of life

And Ghouls. Restless corpses buried in unsanctified soil.

I felt uneasy for a moment, remembering Grixis.

Then light spilled through my mind, no doubt called forth by the angel.

That's things were attacking people. I had the power to help. To protect. And, more importantly, to heal.

The skies gradually grew darker around me. I was flying into a storm.

"Rise above it. You are are hope. Mere clouds will never stop you," Avacyn said, determined.

I could feel her. She was filled with regret, greif, and fury. Over her failure, over the fall of her comrades, over the state of Innistrad. But there was also hope, and joy. She had seen her friend, the name Sigardia sprung forth from my counterpart, leading the people, inspiring them. People still believed in good, and hope, and light, and mercy, even in the face of a rising tide of dark.

"We're here," she whispered.

I swooped down below the clouds, taking in the scene before me.

I hovered over the legion of dead, horrible monsters in massive numbers, ghoul and skaab fighting each other as much as the town's lone defender.

A werewolf.

He stood, flame glowing within him and escaping from between his teeth like drool, blade in one hand, fire dancing around the other.

He was a sight terrible and majestic to behold, like a sublime force of nature

His fur was a dark ginger, and he, quite curiously, was still clothed. He wore a kilt along with armour emblazoned with the golden sun of the Boros legion, drenched to the bone with rain.

Another Planeswalker, then.

He gave off a savage fury and grim determination, howling his challenge to the undead horde, battalions of rotted flesh torn to shreds at his feet.

He fought like a flaming hurricane, fat drops of rain sizzling as they landed on him. Blade swinging in wide arcs, claws flashing with fire.

He was grinning. It was chilling, like death itself had descended to return the dead to rest.

Despite all that I sensed another protector, albeit one more wild and savage. Avacyn only confirmed this, telling me what she could remember of this man. It was an unusual amount. When she had made her offer at Gastaf, to change the Werewolves, make them protectors, he had been one of the first to accept, and become wolfir.

And, when the Cursemute had broken, he stayed in balance, channeling that wild nature to protect his home.

And despite all that, despite his savage power, and wild power, he was beginning to falter.

That Would. Not. Stand.

Heroes should triumph. They should be able to have rest, happiness, rest, home once their battles were over. Not death in some dark place, far from home.

Avacyn agreed.

We hefted our spear aloft, parting the clouds and letting light spill onto the battlefield. I felt the familiar feeling of mana shaping into magic as we called burning shafts of light down onto the undead horde.

A softer light fell upon the village, meant to give hope, to rejuvenate, and to heal. Not a minute later, as i prepared to dive into the horde, a howl went up. The village of werewolves and wolfir emptied from the gates, following the lead and orders of the planeswalker. I smiled, and dove into the fray, landing in their ranks.

My spear-sword slashed through the dead like they were wet tissue. Through it I channeled holy light, burning scores of dead with each beam of power.

I used my wings to throw up dust in great, thunderous flaps to obscure sight, to propel myself around and away from attacks in such a graceful manner that it was like dancing, and to fly up above the fray to call down more healing glow for the wolven warriors, and burning light to smite the corpses.

The wolves moved in packs, all lead by the planeswalker. They cut down the dead, shredding their limbs so they couldn't rise again. When one of their number was hurt, another took their place until the next wave of healing light. Whenever one of their number fell, all it did was enrage those still fighting further.

The dead scattered before the combined fury of angel and wolf like chaff before the wind.

After the battle, I strode up to the planeswalker. When I saw his face, I almost cried. Despite thick stubble and a scar over one eye, I could tell that he couldn't be older than 20, but had seen fathomless horrors.

He was rather solidly built and very tall, almost nine feet. His face was solid and square, but still handsome. His hair was short, and the same darker shade of ginger as his fur.

I asked for his name, mentioning his Wojek status. It threw him off guard and he blushed and stuttered, but did manage to give me his name, which was Seamus Alastair Faodlah. I did chuckle at his stunned state. Finally, he asked me my name, and I told him:

"I am Elspeth Tirel, Heiress of Avacyn and Archangel of Hope. Will you help me save this world?"

He fell to one knee and bowed his head.

"Of course. This is my home. I would be honored my lady," he said, his deep and rough voice reverent.

When I spoke, Avacyn did too, approving of my actions.

"Then rise, Seamus The Wolfflame, first of my Wolf Knights, Hero of the Battle at Faodlah's Rest," I declared, raising my voice for all to hear.

"My lady... I thank you," he said, hesitating as he rose, "but I have sworn an oath to the people of another plane, to uphold the law and protect the people. I cannot just abandon it," he said, eyes downcast.

I considered this. Planeswalkers often form attachments to and are bound to duties on other planes. Finally, I placed my hand on his shoulder

"You do not have to," I told him, before continuing, "Simply spread word of me to those you hold in high regard. Ask them to help my cause. As my Knight, I trust your judgement!"

He nodded, a toothy, joyous grin splitting his solid, square face, and stood at my side.

We walked to address the assembled lupine warriors, who had moved to the village square and were beginning celebration with the villagers that had remained within the walls. Seamus remained on the ground as I took to the air, hovering about ten feet of the ground.

Again, Avacyn spoke with me, giving my words power and a almost musical quality.

"Today you have fought with courage, honor, determination, and passion. These are all traits that I look for in heros. I am Elspeth Tirel, Heiress of Avacyn and Archangel of Hope. Will those of you that wish to shine a light in this darkening world join me, as my honorable Wolf Knights, and help save this shadowed world?"

The answering howls from the warriors were deafening.

@actualborossoldier @gardianforce @selesnyapokemonprofessor @leonin-pal-adin @digitalis-the-engineer @chandra-pyromaster @aspenvald @holypupper @lasav-the-sneakster @jolly-ob-saint-nixilis @milolikesthings @userwordandpassname @tempus-vulpes @wearepaladin @kopala-warden-of-tumbr @lucianofsamosata @sorin-investigations @avacyn-jr @fe3nderm4n @thetalesofthereneverwood @baldore-of-the-boros @poison-stripes @chelsea-beleren-vess @leonsgirl

#fanfic #fanfiction #elspeth #avacyn

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z-ealotry-blog · 7 years

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{ ooc. I might’ve gotten distracted when I was writing replies bUT doesn’t mean I can’t show you the result it’s, like, 1575 words and I’m not sorry }

He should have listened— he should have listened.

The signs had been there, hanging just before his eyes, yet both out of his reach, and unable to be seen through a shallow gaze not unequal to the beginnings of a crack on a sheet of thick glass, and yet he so foolishly turned a blind eye each time his hardened stare focused on her presence. She had been calling out to him silently— the nights where he could feel her tossing and turning, the days where the woman walked as though the whole world was weighing down on her shoulders whilst simultaneously holding a blade to her neck—, and he, in his better judgement, had assumed it to be the sage simply testing his faith in lieu of the red flags which fate wished for them to be. Every day, for over nine months— every hour, every minute, every second, and he missed each single silent plea for him to intervene, and properly set her back onto the right course. He should have ordered her to stay by his side, so that he might have kept a closer eye on her, and prevented those traitorous fears from consuming her whole. Instead, the man had unknowingly sat back, and allowed for fear and anxiety to torment her to the point where she been manipulated into running off with their child, the vessel, by her own, delusional mind.

Is this what regret feels like, the sorcerer wonders? No, that cannot be— he does not experience such pitiful emotions. The tightness in the man's chest which threatens to tear his very soul open, the feeling of dread which ceaselessly pools in his stomach, the almost unbearable urge to take the anger directed at himself out on everything around him— this must just be a misunderstanding. Never in his life would the male lower himself to such a level, and make so many mistakes in such a short period of time— so much so that it would drive away his own wife. Yes— this is no fault of his; fate has taken her from him. This must have been preordained, Validar thinks, yet if that is the case, then why did none of the scriptures speak of such things?

In an instant, the sorcerer breaks his chain of thought, and though his form shrieks with protest, the man forces himself to stalk his way over to a rather ornate desk, with red eyes sending an accusatory glare to the purple tome sitting atop of it. It has to have been in there somewhere— he must have read it wrong. Talon-like nails flick through the pages, with each turn prompting a sharp and scratchy sort of sound to pierce the air, his stare insanely focused as they dart over each sentence etched upon its surface.

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

A frustrated yell erupts from thin lips, and though his heart wishes to fling the book to the ground out of pure fury, he instead slams the pages shut with whatever force his recovering form could muster. It was not there— the mother of the vessel was not meant to defect; she was not meant to take the child and run off. Everything— every page pertaining to the vessel's upbringing, details it being here, with the mother nurturing it. She was meant to be by his side. A clawed hand grasps the area around his mouth, and for the first time in his life, Validar begins to feel himself beginning to crack. He can hear it— his father, his grandfather; generations of his line screaming at him for letting this happen. How could this go so wrong? If fate is set in stone, as the faith he leads states, then how and why has it deviated from the path written down, born from the visions of the fell dragon himself?

Could Grima's words be wrong?

No— they could not be. Yet why has fate drifted from its original course? Why, then, could fear tear a woman once as devoted to the cause as himself from her proper path? Could she have experienced something he has not? A vision, a voice, a sign which revealed the truth— Validar stops himself there, the deep frown taking over his visage reflecting the feeling of disgust which begins to fester in the man's stomach, sickened to find himself manifesting, after almost two decades, doubts pertaining to the faith, though that does not stop more thoughts of the same nature popping up seconds later. He will have to punish himself at a different time; he will add to the scars born in his childhood once some sort of plan has been put in place. Removing the hand from his features in such a way that the tips of sharpened nails drag down dark skin, the male steps away from the desk, and casts his troubled stare over to the other side of the room— to the bookshelves which he recalls the female having spent days filling her head with their contents until he required some assistance.

She is gone— most likely somewhere in Ylisse by now, hiding from that pitiful exalt—, and yet the woman still has such a level of influence over his thoughts. She is a traitor, and yet Validar finds himself wanting her to be nowhere but by his side. What a fool he has been— the man opened his heart, devoted himself to the one person he let in, and now she has abandoned him, leaving behind nothing but memories and the purest forms of rage and heartache to forever fester inside of his mind. The thought of her now tortures him so— to reflect upon her fair visage, to recall her voice, to remember the time they spent together; it feels as though his wife has cursed him, binding the man forever to a ceaseless source of pain. Her presence offered him everything— love, a confidant, power, tactical prowess—, but her absence offers him nothing of use. In fact, it is debilitating— truly, he feels trapped. Their bond now feels akin to that of restraint; a series of chains holding the man down, keeping him just out of reach to what he so desperately wishes to keep, with memories of soft touches and compassionate words from her only pulling the sorcerer back further.

It is then that his gaze falls to staff which leans against the pane of a window. A heal staff. The sorcerer can practically feel the gemstone which he keeps on his form— Sable— burning not unlike a flame, but at the same time, instructing the male to make his way over to it.

Not a single thought after those silent words is required to spur the man onward, storming over to the object and barely gritting his teeth as, once more, every inch of his form screeches in pain, not at all recovered from the fight the two had gotten into— a clash which had transpired out of her sheer desperation to get away, and his own desire to bring the woman back to her senses and recover the vessel. The male snatches the weapon from its spot, his expression darkening as red eyes scan over its details. This was hers— he gave it to her when she had been but a cleric, though the female would not know that, for he made sure that someone else presented it to her. The sorcerer's grasp tightens significantly, with knuckles turning a paler shade and the bones of long fingers aching relentlessly as he attempts to curb the dreadful feelings bubbling in his chest— ones which the man has never truly felt before; not to such an extent. He did so much for that woman when she was not watching. He had aided her in learning how to wield magic; he showed her things reserved only for men of his station; he slaughtered people in her name, so that she would not ever have to experience grief or pain at the hands of others. This is how the female has repaid him— by letting emotion and weakness overtake her to the point where she would run off with their child. She has condemned herself.

No. Validar cannot accept this. He will find the vessel, and bring them back. He will find that woman, his dear wife, and drag her back onto the path fate has planned for her, even if she screams, wails or tries to fight her way out of it. He has to, regardless of whether the man must reduce her to a doll-like state or not in order to make she does not leave his side again. His form turns towards the bookshelf, and with an almost effortless motions— as though the contents of it have been memorised by the man— he plucks a tome from the collection, seemingly unaware that said book pertains to a spell revolving around the branch of anima magic which frequently associated itself with her; fire. Loud, quickened steps then carry him back over to the desk where he, after messily finding a means to do so, snatches up that heirloom to his bloodline, and although those horrible feelings do not completely dissipate, the sorcerer finds a majority of them manifesting into nothing but determination.

He will drag the Grimleal underground, put a fool upon the throne in his place, and find her.

#validar #fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #♚ ⊱⦃ ❝ Human bonds are leaves in the wind. They offer you nothing.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ♚#{Drabble}

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