Rebirth and Return [All are welcome!]

[Kasoria]

Fuck me... scraping the barrel, old man...

Even his thoughts were coming to him as if through a fug, a mire, a fog. They seemed to drizzle into his consciousness, broken up and drowned out by breathing that seemed to suck blood as much as it did air. His Sparks had stopped screaming in protest; they were too exhausted for even that. He'd poured all of them into keeping Parhn from crashing like a fucking dart into the ground, slowing him as best he could... but he could feel his control not just fraying, but tearing itself apart-

-and taking him with it.

Kasoria grunted and went down to both knees. A vein up his arm pulsed black and trembled. He could feel the paralysis start to spread from it, as if his ether was coursing through the tunnel and infecting all the muscle around it. The chaos around him seemed to dim for a moment, but not enough that-

"For the Mis-"

The wanker never got further than that. Kasoria hurled himself forward and up as the crimson-splattered fanatic lunged for Oberan. Through magic and heretics and the walking dead, he'd somehow survived. Big and broad, one arm hanging slack and mangled, but the other clutching a spiked mace with white-knuckle strength. He barely saw the little man with the ratty hair as he swept by. But then the bag of bones and hatred screamed and the Web Guard turned-

-bringing the mace down hard as the fool brought up a fist instead-

CLANG

-which stopped it dead. The Web Guard's mouth clicked open in surprise, and in that golden span of time it took for him to see the brass knuckles wrapped around Kasoria's hand-

-the Raggedy Man grunted and poured his Transmutation into the brass weapon, Galvanizing it with the weight of desert boulders, feeling his wrist start to strain but before it could-

-he lashed out and took the bastard's kneecap as he was still gawking, making him stagger, go down to one knee-

-lashed out again with his right, brass knuckles now heavy and hard as an ancient stone mace from days forgotten and unwritten-

CRUNCH

-teeth went scattering unnoticed into the insane melee around them. Bones broke. A jaw hung loose. Eyes went unfocused and the mace wavered in his grip-

-Kasoria growled and didn't let him fall. One hand held him by the collar, the other pounded the knuckles into his face again-

-and again-

-then let him fall, never to rise again, with most of his face hammered into the middle of his skull.

Oberan was still working, but it was in vain. The Queen Cunt herself had willed the dead spider out of existence and even slowed by his magic, Parhn would hit the ground far too hard. Kasoria felt the last of his Abrogation shrivel away as he turned back helplessly, eyes muddled as if drunk, slumping down but too stubborn to actually fall. It wouldn't work. It was too-

"... the fuck...?"

High Marshal Parhn did not die just then. He rolled and skidded and slid down an invisible slope that brought him to a gentle-if-undignified heap at the feet of...

"Some people just don't know when the party is over."

Kasoria knew that voice. He'd heard it only once and now it was changed, twisted, morphed. But he knew it. Before the hood came down, he knew who it was... and he couldn't help but twist his lips into a grin. Vuda. Whether he be Lord of Counselor or just that single word, the name was dread and power across every foot of Etzori soil and likely far beyond it. The gang lords and guild masters were pawns and players to him; even the High Council was but a fractious class of children he had to hammer into line now and then. But it was all for a single purpose, so he had been told. Sima had been a clever woman; she'd not have let herself be leashed and used by anyone but a true believer.

Etzos. Not just the city. Not just the people. The dream.

Aye, and a fine state you're in to fucking help.

The voice in his head chuckled at his annoyance, but of course, never actually helped. He tried to rise but his body was torn and tired beyond simple words. He'd given all a man his age could against those half his arcs, and suffered the wounds for it. His ether was shot and his muscles drained. One of his arms was a leaden lump and one leg was bleeding so heavily he couldn't put any weight on it. Through eyes swimming with blood and tears, he could feel himself start to fall back. He'd tried. He'd done his part. But he was old, and sleepy, s-

“On your feet, Kas!”

Someone had other ideas.

“The Raggedy Man’s part is not yet played to the full, you’re needed on stage!”

Oberan. Only that twat could have such supreme arrogance still rich in his words at a time like this. Kasoria opened a mouth caked in sand and blood to tell him to fuck away off, but before he could bother he felt-

Power. The only word for it. The sort of power that breathed life into things first-born and dragged the dying from the fingertips of Vri. It shot through the older man like lightning, straightening his arms and legs, snapping him upright in a heartbeat. The curse died on his lips and was replaced by just a stuttering stammer of disbelief, as more and more of this... vitality, was poured into him. The same magic Oberan had been working the whole battle, now doubled and doubled atop of that. He looked down and-

“Forget your wounds, your aches, your pain. Ignore your fatigue, the outcry of your limbs. Feel the energy course through your veins. Let it revitalize you.”

"Fates..."

He couldn't say anything else as looked down and saw the wounds on his body... not heal, but just... cease to matter. He was alive. He was strong. He was fresh, that's what it felt like. No acid in his throat or chains about his limbs. He breathed in deep and his lungs were clear. He flexed his muscles from shoulders to fingers and felt no pain, no hesitation-

“This’ll keep you going for a while. The more you put yourself at risk, the longer it will last.”

Something long with a heavy head was pressed into his hand. Kasoria weighed it in his grip until he had the balance down. Hardly a subtle weapon, nor his favorite... but when the monstrosity across the stage was your enemy, overwhelming blunt force trauma seemed a reliable method. He listened to Oberan without turning to face him. His battle was beyond the silly circle they stood in. The Tower Guard were dying, now. Not just fighting a hard fight. Flaxo was rallying them as best he could but Sintra was determined to slaughter all of Parhn's shiny guardians and-

-then a spear was slammed into her body. A blow that... drew blood, and flame.

Blood from a goddess. Nay. A pretender. But blood from an Immortal? Much the same.

At the thought, he finally turned to Oberan. That same look he'd given him long ago, when he'd been at the Raggedy Man's mercy in the back room of some gaming house. Accusing and inspecting in equal measure. Weighing and measuring him with cold patience. He looked Oberan up and down, restored and lethal once again... and realized something that had been out of reach for trials now.

"S'not jus' magic, is it? What youse can do. It's... from summin' like her." He winced at the wording. No point dancing around it now. "Yer Morty-born."

This was hardly the place for that discussion. Sintra's forces were broken and routing but for many, that just made them more dangerous. Determined to give their lives only after taking as many heretics with them as they could. Going down flailing and screaming under tides of dead-eyed wights or the vengeful blades of their fellow Etzori. Kasoria and Oberan locked eyes. The younger man (by appearance, anyway) seemed ready to speak, and then-

"Raggedy BASTARD!"

It was just another enemy. One among thousands that day. Kasoria would struggle to remember his face afterwards. The minor details that once stuck fast in his mind so much when he killed. As it was, he was in no mood to capture the moment. With a strength that seemed to belong to him as he stood a decade before, his sledgehammer lashed out low as he ducked the short sword swinging for his head-

-shattering the man's knee, bending it inwards with a crack that sounded like a tree limb being axed through-

-springing back up and bringing the hammer with him, an overhand arc with one hand, coming up and down-

CRUNCH

Not subtle. Not elegant. But effective.

Kasoria shook the brain pulp and skull fragments away, then glanced back at Oberan. No time for this. Not now, and... and if he was honest, no matter. It did not matter. He was a Morty-born? Fine. But he was on their side. Just like Llyr had been. A man he'd tried to kill for his heritage, his blood, the birth he'd had no say in. How did that feel afterwards? Not wonderful...

“That’s our queue, tide’s turning. One last push, Raggedy Man. You’re up.”

So Kasoria grunted, lip curling in amusement at the use of his name. Eyes glittering like opals in the bottom of a mineshaft. He nodded sharply, no more words to be said, and he moved-

Oberan would struggle to keep up, but there was no room for any other speed right now. Kasoria was quicksilver now, melting mercury, streaking along and over and around the warring figures and shambling corpses and twitching corpses. Feet beating the sand so hard they almost sounded like rain. Oberan was as good as his word, and as they both charged to the stage, Kasoria could see out the corner of his eyes-

-figures that might lunge for them choke and pause, strength fleeing from them, into Oberan-

Very handy.

He lashed out at a couple that might have become a problem. Fates, but he felt strong again. The sledgehammer he wielded like a sword, shattering skulls and heart-cages with every blow as he went. Clearing a path as he approaches, then adding his own wyrd to Oberan's-

Come.

And they did. Both of them. Pouring back into his veins and muscles like water from a spring once dry, now gushing once more. Layers of Abrogative energy rippled out of him, building on each other, wrapping around him even as he ran, oldest of his magic working at his thought at that same speed. Even as he laid about with the hammer, his form seemed to shimmer to those who glanced his way. Layer after layer of Replicative energy sheathed and shielded him now. And as he got close to the stage he growled and thumped down to one knee and punched the damn sand-

BOOM

Transmutation came next. Hammering into the ground and rippling through the sands. A strip from where he knelt to the edge of the stage was suddenly nothing but spikes and spears and jagged thorn-like protrusions. Everything within it died, impaled without mercy or distinction. Kasoria had no time for either. The moment all was dead in that space, he adjusted his energies, already moving as he commanded the sand, sculped and crafted it-

-into a ramp, letting the man and the Mortalborn run up onto the stage-

Finally.

Sintra was far past manipulations. No more false facades or layers of deceptions. No more beauty, the finest guise for villainy. What stamped and hissed and skittered across the Central Stage was something shorn of all pretense. It was monstrous and raging, inhuman and eternal in its horror. Kasoria didn't know if this was her true form, or just the one she wore when she was in a purest rage.

He rather hoped it was the latter. Just to know the cunt was good and pissed at what they'd done to her.

He forgot about Oberan. He forgot about the hell on the sands and the pain becoming the faintest notion again in his flesh. He wouldn't have long, and he'd no weapon to truly make a dent on this monster. But others did. Venora did. Parhn might have. He'd bet his left bollock that fucking Vuda did. So he needed to run interference, distract, deflect, keep her busy and-

"Oi?! Here, yeh ugly fuckin' bitch!"

Kasoria had a feeling that line would be left out of the dramatic retelling. But it made her turn, face once lovely now terrible, still marked by features that should have been beautiful not now twisted into ugliness by rage like a sword would gnarl skin into scar tissue. Kasoria spat to the side, wished he had Shadow Slayer instead of a bloody hammer, and started to run. A moment later, Sintra started to laugh, until it turned into a shriek-

Fuck!

However fast he was, however much Oberan had restored him, Kasoria was still a mortal. Sintra was not, and thus not nearly encumbered by mere physics as him. Thought her body now weighed thousands of pounds, she moved fast as a cobra. Kasoria barely managed to jump to the side avoiding the claw that lashed out at him, crashing into the stage and splintering it like kindling-

-kept rolling as he landed, knowing from the flitting shadow above him that the stinger-

CRACK

-followed a moment later, bulbous, venom-dripping spike burying into the stage before ripping out again. Kasoria rolled to his feet, jumped from there, now at her side, trying for any opening, any lapse in attention-

There!

-leapt and swung in the same moment, Bolstering the sledgehammer with as much weight as he could. The head of the thing glowed for a moment as cast iron became as heavy as stone, then heavier, even as it swung and-

Sintra howled. In outrage, it had to be said, but Kasoria was a connoisseur of such sounds. He knew pain, even when it was buried under more hurt pride than damaged flesh. The sledgehammer smashed so hard into the joint of one of her legs that the handle snapped clean in two. Anywhere else on the spider leg, and it still wouldn't have mattered. But like any armor, any leg of any kind, the joint was always the weak spot. Had to be supple, had to bend, had to move... so it wasn't quite whole. Wasn't quite invulnerable.

Kasoria grinned as he heard the snap, and the bellow a fraction of a trill later.

Overwhelming blunt force trauma. Not to be underestimated.

Of course, now he had her undivided attention. He backpedaled as fast as he could, shadow of the stomping monster soon covering him entirely. One sweep of a her claws legs and the Tower Guard were sent scattering, unable to interfere anymore. Kasoria's hand subconsciously went to his belt... only to find Shadow Slayer was still gone. Taken away from him by Flaxo the night he'd been arrested, and never returned. He cursed him and Parhn and Oberan and himself while he was fucking at it for not getting the damn thing back to him. It would have been handy right-

"Kasoria?!"

His eyes flicked over, just in time to see Flaxo raise something long and razor-sharp off behind a limping Sintra. A red blade with black runes etched from pommel to tip. Kasoria's eyes widened. They met Flaxo's... and he wished he had the time to bellow that would have been handy a fucking break ago, wanker!

They didn't need to shout orders or decide a plan. Kasoria started running. Flaming, smoking, hissing, roaring and despite everything she was and had been since Mankind were apes in trees, wounded, Sintra tracked him. Her flesh ached and her body stung, but already she was starting to heal. Chitin and bone reknitting faster than any healer in the world could manage. The scurrying cur would not get far and as he looked at her he-

-threw up a hand and closed his eyes as he willed all the Transmutation he had into his palm and-

Brilliance .Like never before. Now.

Even behind his closed eyes, his eyes stung. He saw shapes even in darkness. He head men call out in shock and pain and then Sintra's enraged scream swallowed them all. He opened his eyes and started running... roughly towards the wobbling smudge holding a long black smudge.

Thirty feet. Twenty-five. C'mon, old man!

Sintra started moving again, moment of blindness shaken off faster than the mortals. Kasoria snatched a look over his shoulder and saw her rear back, stinger ready to strike, and threw his arm back again-

Ether missile.

-bolt of crackling blue-white energy exploding from his palm and Sintra had to deflect it, batting it away with a curse with one of her pincers and Kasoria knew he was out of tricks-

Jump!

-leaping forwards as Flaxo threw the gladius. Blade spinning through the air, towards his outstretched palm.

Three feet. Two.

The shadow fell across him as his fingers brushed the handle. Something spoke behind him in a voice soaked with unfathomable hatred.

"Too... slow."

[Ulric]

1 Cylus 721 | Ulric | Crescent Arena

Watching the High Marshal fly through the air, Ulric felt like the world around him seemed to slow down though it did not. The spider they were using to break the fall vanished instantly and Ulric thought Sintra had gotten the better of them- at least in regards to the High Marshal. Even without him, how much longer was Etzos a profitable position. She could rage and destroy but it would not get her back what she'd lost. That would take a different tactics. However the Marshal was saved by someone Ulric saw for only a moment before being tackled by an unarmed warrior who'd shed his armor to avoid the undead but still fought loyally for his mistress. Ulric's sword was knocked from his hand in the collision but when the web spinner's hands wrapped around Ulric's neck and began to squeeze, Ulric grabbed his enemy's throat and rolled to the side, pushing himself with a tendril to overcome his opponent. The roll separated the two of them and Ulric reached out for his sword, causing the tendril he'd pushed himself with to shift and grab the blade. It came back into his hand as his unarmed opponent reached him and Ulric forced the man back with a wide swing.

His opponent looked for a weapon and Ulric wrapped a tendril around his neck, pulling him directly into his sword to save time. As the web spinner fell dead, Ulric noticed a silence overtaking the scene and turned to find the hooded figure who'd saved Parhn had just unveiled their... unnatural appearance. Who was the former ghost to judge? It seemed then, that the all out assault on the immortal herself began. Kasoria and Oberan went on the attack while Ulric continued merely fending for himself in the great struggle. His body was tired, and he could feel the many tendrils he was maintaining and conjuring beginning to strain. He felt sleepy, exhausted by the expense, even with all the chaos around him. He kept his grip on his sword while Kasoria, Flaxxo, and all of Etzos finest attacked the immortal he'd sworn allegiance to. He watched, between moments of batting aside enemies with spent, weak movements and tendrils to cheat, as the Immortal he swore loyalty to went to war.

He watched, but he would not attack her, not directly. Not while so many were doing it already. Not while she was the reason he breathed.

[Neronin]

The spell ceased as his would be allies charged back at the Immortal. They were able and skilled, and seemed to disregard any fear of her power in favor of faith in that skill. Neronin silently commended these warriors who so completely distracted the vile power in the Arena. It left him to attend other business.

In Etzos, now more than ever before, one needed an ace to survive. The damnable mage had his forces, his manipulation. This Immortal had her unknowable well of power. Even Parhn seemed to have allies still. He had nothing. Nothing but the knowledge of where to find his ace. Neronin called up his power and shot spell after spell at any hostile Web Guard near him as he made his way to the exit of the Arena. Most of the forces were concentrated around Sintra and those who battled her. He watched as a spear took her and actually drew blood.

These brave fools may actually send her back for a time. He thought with grudging admiration.

But that was neither his task nor his concern. He had fulfilled his role and now must act quickly. The necromancer slid through the burning gate that had been left open by a flaming spider the size of a donkey, now struggling under the weight of a few husks. Neronin fled along the streets of the Etzori inner districts. There had been a time when he would have been beaten for being seen here, but that had been arcs ago. He had since learned the vile arts and secured a posting in the heart of Etzori privilege. It was too that heart that he fled now.

He came upon the familiar tower, the gates now unguarded. A smile of triumph slid across his face. The necromancer looked behind and could see no one in the street the way he came.

Good, good. Vuda mustn’t know.

He pushed open the gate and entered. It was not long before he found himself in the polished marble entry hall of the museum. The main door slid closed behind him and there was no sound. The chaos of the city did not reach here. The sound of his own steps was all that broke this silence. Like some vaulted tomb, the museum stood still and waited. Neronin yanked a lamp from a bracket and eyed the familiar arches and halls. Above and ahead was the well lit beauty of the museum. To the side and below, the real wonders lay in darkness behind a hundred closed doors.

It was in that direction that his ace lay. Neronin found the door to the storage vaults closed and locked, but he had been there a thousand times while he worked in the place. He simply opened a portal and stepped past the door. The silence of the place was joined instantly by a confining darkness, and Neronin felt his pulse slow again. He was home in the darkness and the calm.

His feet lead him as his mind drifted. He had been plagued by thoughts of the ritual ever since he first learned of it. Gavrel’s old text still appeared unbidden in his mind. The necrotic spark seemed to bring it to the fore whenever the subject strayed across their shared consciousness. It was as though the thing said ‘here look, we know how to do it!”

Once that eagerness would have unsettled Neronin. Now, however, he had accepted their symbiosis. He was no longer human in the strictest sense.

He found the door he was looking for and pushed it open. The vault illuminated with his lamp. It too was familiar. Here there were dozens of priceless artifacts from the far eastern realms. Neronin hesitantly curled his pale fingers around the thin rube of an ancient golden statue of Moseke, her hair covered in flowers and her hands curled around a long wooden staff. He picked it up.

The thing must have cost a few thousand Nel. He brought it down hard on the ornate silver latch of the a nearby mahogany box. The statues head rolled away under a shelf and the latch broke. Neronin let the statue fall and lifted the lid. Inside a glittering perfect black orb lay with a clutching frame of skeletal hands around it.

The only Dark Star well Neronin had even seen. Neronin lifted it carefully from the bed of satin it lay in. It throbbed with power and he could feel the necrotic spark within him pulsing in sync with the thing. It knew what he intended. Now he had his ace. Neronin stepped forward through another portal and stepped out into the entry hall of the museum once more.

A broad rictus smile spread across the necromancer’s face as he watched the light of the many torches and lamps splay across the black orb. He began to absentmindedly bend and break the golden skeletal decorations off the thing.

“Don’t do it.” Neronin looked up and his heart faltered. Before him stood the kenning-ravaged form he knew so well. Vuda stared back at him calmly.

[Maltruism]

Rebirth and Return

There is a weakness that can afflict even the most experienced fighter.

The flames surrounding Sintra snuffed out as she once again focused on dispelling them. A pattern now developed on the stage, which culminated in a battle of attrition. Any time that Sintra focused too much on exploiting a strategic opening in the fight, the flames would return to at least bring a shimmer of building heat around her. If she did not return some focus to stemming the magic, she would again burst into flame. But that redirection of focus would rob her of the chance of delivering a significant blow to her enemies.

On the flip side, when she turned her attention inward, to block the magic, she left herself more open to attack. But those who came close to exploit this often got burns from the sudden burst of flame as her attention once again turned outward to fight them. And it was not to be disregarded that she was an Immortal, with speed and awareness far above the mere mortals against whom she strove. It did not always require this extra attention to spoil an enemy's attack. Was she one of the more martial-focused Immortals, this fight would probably already be over.

Still, the fight clanged and pounded all around the stage, with strategic fortunes largely remaining even. The soldiers directly opposing her were falling prey to exhaustion, even the accursed Flaxxo was displaying such vulnerability. It was only the need to maintain these separate frames of mind, battling soldiers on one hand, and runic magic on the other, that kept her from reveling in the sadistic thoughts of what she would do to him when this was over and she sat atop Etzos' tower.

Then that wretch Kasoria chose to upset the balance...

And again she saw that somehow Oberan was involved. She could feel the link between them, and it was not an etheric link. Perhaps she could drive a wedge between them. She new he was Audrae's son. The knowledge had trickled down easily enough from when the dignitaries from Augiery had visited a few arcs back. She knew Kasoria had had a severe falling out with Llyr when she'd let slip that he was a mortal-born.

"Hypocrite!" she snarled, narrowing the spread of her voice to reach only her Raggedy opponent. There was no point in vilifying those who did not know Oberan by name, "You revel in such hostility to ONE Immortal while feeding on the power of another. You find ME repugnant, but Audrae is acceptable? She is the source of Oberan's power. Didn't you know?"

She would probably have gone on further, but the little man was already reaching the stage, showing no signs of having even heard her. Maybe he would kill the mortal-born after the fight, but the rage currently in his eyes was all for her. As she absent-mindedly parried a few blows, she tried to assert her Web of Hatred upon the assassin, to make him more amenable to her suggestion, but it seemed to wither as it reached him. It began to rise in her psyche as a new source of concern, a new thought she had to compartmentalize as she once again thwarted the runic flames that sought to consume her.

Her battle pattern resumed its form, parry and move, strike and move, put down flames and move, her speed as much a strategy as any attack she made. But the realization that remaining in this form was what might ultimately defeat her, as well as the knowledge that she would be even faster in her "mortal" form, she waited for her chance, seeing it as Flaxxo tossed Kasoria's blade toward the little man. Experience had also taught her that a single wounded leg, of the eight she sported in her battle form, would be far less of a hindrance as the injury became part of only a quarter of one mortal-type leg.

She knew where he would need go to catch it, and saw an empty spot where she could be behind him when he did. Killing him even as he entered the fray would be a great demoralizing blow to the rest. As the flames began to ignite around her, she realized as well that the image of those flames would hold the focus of her enemies as she shifted to her mortal form and streaked to stand behind Kasoria as the blade dropped into his hand.

"Too slow" she sneered in anticipation of triumph.

"Too predictable!" Flaxxo echoed from behind her, naming that one affliction that history shows will bring down even the greatest of fighters, and one which Flaxxo nearly died learning many arcs ago. He had long since learned to watch for redundant tactics from an enemy he found impossible to fight straight on. He had also learned to feign exhaustion when he knew he might need to tap a reserve at some point. And that point was now. His sword bit Immortal flesh deeply even before his second word was finished.

Sintra's gasp of pain crossed from one side of the stage to the other as her body followed suit, so fast that the blow did not fully impale her. But fear was now the dominant feature of her expression, even more than the disbelief which came in as a close second. She stared at the blood on her hand, the same which was forming a steadily growing stain on her previously elegant robe.

Had she not suffered defeats at the hands of her siblings and cousins, and their minions, before this she might have been swarmed and killed, but she knew the situation had changed. The situation onstage was on longer a sure thing, and Vuda's presence had clearly altered the situation off stage against her, his almost casual motions seeming to impact every individual fight to the detriment of her followers.

Her gaze shifted on a triangular pattern, the failing battle off stage, to the mass of enemies charging her on stage, to the impossible presence of blood and pain within and upon herself, as her expression finalized. Never had hate been so perfectly defined in any book or theater, fiction or otherwise, than as it was now written on her face.

She caught sight of Ulric as she looked for the swiftest avenue of escape. Her hope of his eternal suffering now denied, she would at least destroy him. She blinked just a bit further from the swarming mass of raging soldiers heading her way and turned her power on removing the resurrective power that had brought him back to life.

Inside the ex-ghost's mind, the young soul that had been Alex screamed in pain.

But not in fear...

There were no conscious words, only emotional impressions and philosophical concepts. A hope that the soldiers will reach Sintra before his resistance to her intention destroys both he and Ulric; a welcoming of death and rebirth; a freedom from the burden of trying to direct his host's obsession with vengeance to something more constructive; a belief that his presence in Ulric's mind is no longer serving a beneficial purpose, and may even now be triggering resentment and stubbornness; a curiously eager desire to experience the rumored meeting with Vri and his sisters before judgement and rebirth; a confidence that he will come out of it on the up side; and a sad uncertainty that Ulric may not realize that he, Alex, is not at all afraid to truly die.

If an entire life can flash before a dying man's eyes, such a stream of impressions was easily passed as the young soul departed from the ex-ghost's mind. He had now given himself twice to save Ulric. For her part Sintra felt something shatter and was now new-pressed to defend herself; she gave Ulric no further thought, believing she had destroyed him.

Had she had the time to see that he remained on his feet, she may have realized her error, but she now put her energy into stemming the loss of her essence and streaking from the stage to find a place to hide or escape. A sudden muffled boom below spoke that the Underground entrance to her domain was now collapsed.


Vuda also heard the concussion from beneath the streets. It was probably even nel whether each combatant heard it, with all the other noise going on. But the ex-chief adviser was now away from the noise of the battle. His multi-tasked performance in the melee had included one other detail that had thus far gone unnoticed. He had kept the equivalent of "an eye" on Neronin.

His flight from the city at the outset of Lisirra's attack over an arc ago had not been in line with any of the rumors or theories explaining his absence. He knew his empathic hold over the High Marshall had been discovered. He was no longer a welcome figure in the Tower. He also knew that that information had been kept confidential. It was only his design of the anti-arachnid rune, his promise of reinforcements, in the form of a necromantic thrall army, and now his rescue of the aforementioned High Marshall from certain death that allowed his presence.

He would never again be part of Etzos' council. But that was hardly a drop in his status. Instead he was master of Highbend. No more need of sneaking and manipulating. No more need of hidden magics to keep control. The magic he now wielded was an open threat to any that sought to disrupt the balance he'd finally achieved in the city to the west of Etzos proper. Not a necromancer himself, he kept a strong Nemesis barrier to protect himself from the many wizards of undeath surrounding him there.

He'd not had to crush as many upstarts as he'd thought before the rest fell willingly into line. It probably helped that he imposed no serious restrictions on his underlings' developments of their domain powers, so long as it ultimately served the regional good. The concept of "Greater Good" was, after all, subject to broad interpretation. But the balance was still fairly tenuous, and this Neronin was showing signs of being the next one to challenge the stability he had achieved. One he'd had to commit to Revelation to enforce.

After the last inner power struggle had finished, Vuda let it be known he would never again let such infighting grow. Any future attempts to rock the proverbial boat would see that boat splintered, burned and sunk...permanently. His "feeling" about this Neronin had been growing of late. He was not going to jump to conclusions, but he knew the sorts of items that those in-the-know could find in the museum. He'd placed a few exhibits there himself in past trials. They were not trifles; and he had no doubt that something of that sort was what the necromancer was after. The young mage had worked there long enough to have stashed a few game-changers. Or at least to make note of those contributed by others.

He could see it coming. Neronin would upset the balance of power, and begin a new round of slaughter as competing necromancers inflicted mass murder on the populace to bolster their ranks. He would not allow it. The current liches in Highbend would see it as an omen of purges to come and would react preemptively. Better that Neronin be stopped now.

Following the young mage into the halls of the institute, his worst fears were confirmed. It did not take an Attuner to recognize the well now held in eager necromantic hands, nor its configuration into a phylacterial function. "Don't do it." he ordered. The young mage turned about, startled, but trying to hide it.

Vuda eyed him in a matter-of-fact fashion, "I have told you what I will do. You'd best believe it. You wait your turn like all the rest. No cutting in line." he added with a hint of a sneer. Vuda was well aware that Neronin was learning Abrogation. Hell, he had initiated him into it, intending to make him an agent of sorts. But Lisirra's attack, and the exposure of the enchantment on High Marshall Parhn's armor had thrown all plans onto the compost heap.

The point was that Vuda had had no prior inkling of the power of "Abolish" that came with his Praetorian Revelation. It was something the spark had withheld until commitment. So the odds were very good that Neronin would also have no knowledge of it. As things stood now, Neronin would probably think there was nothing Vuda could do to stop him, as death was one of the basic requirements of becoming a lich.

His surprise would be...short-lived, Vuda thought, stifling a smile.

[Oberan]

There formed a look on Kas’s face. Weighing and measuring and piercing and sharp. Hard and heavy and cold like adamantite left out in a freezing blizzard. Impassive. Calculating. Deliberately neutral. Not dissimilar to when you stared at a disgusting abomination and couldn’t let your feelings show without consequence. Too controlled, yet imperfect. A veil that obscured the underlying emotion, but not quite able to keep some from filtering through.

“S'not jus' magic, is it?”

“Don’t think I ever claimed it was.”

“What youse can do. It's... from summin' like her. Yer Morty-born.”

Ah, so that’s what that look meant.

The accusation didn’t come as too much of a surprise. Oberan’d been working his Domain rather extensively this whole battle, leeching of enemies and empowering allies. The latter with a modicum of restraint when applied to those who’d felt his touch before. And yet, to get Kasoria up on his feet he had to pull him from the brink of unconsciousness, silence all the distracting screeches of the assassin’s many, many wounds. Fill his muscles with power, jolt him with an adrenaline rush that dwarfed any prior one he’d ever felt. Dull the pain, heighten all other senses. Tense his entire body like a tight-wound spring. Cut away the weakness and woeful aches of age and time.

Being a mage –and, oddly enough, an avid devourer of books and tomes—Kasoria knew as well as Oberan did that no such magic existed. Any misconceptions were swept off the table by suspicion that solidified into certainty.

He locked eyes with the killer, staring in those pools of absolute black, seeing himself reflected as if in a dark mirror. Kasoria’s expression was unreadable. Oh, Oberan had no doubts about the thoughts swirling inside the his head. He was well enough aware of Etzos’s stance against the Immortals, and of the Raggedy Man’s rank at the top of the anti-Immortal zealots. Of his loathing and disgust towards them. With Lisirra as neighbor, who could blame the Etzori?

Oberan gave a slight shrug. He wouldn’t deny it. Wouldn’t deny himself. It’d be an insult to his own pride and Kasoria’s intelligence. Severely disrespectful too.

So he opened his mouth and spoke one word instead. One of the few he knew to speak in a language he didn’t. He had no grasp on the language, no knowledge of its grammar and spelling and structure and basic vocabulary. Few Mortals did. But he knew a handful of words.

Though he did not shout or yell, the word seemed to boom. Echoing as if spoken in a dusty cave. It sang with the power of his blood, regal and ancient and more than Mortal. It reverberated his teeth, his bones, the very air around. Quieting the cries of pain and fear, the clattering of metal on metal, the high-pitch squeal of burning carapace without diminishing their volume. And yet it hung heavy in the silence that wasn’t, clear and loud and unmistakably there.

Coming from his lips it sounded like the intangible touch of nimble fingers lifting heavy purses out of deep pockets. Like silent steps and the clicking of a lock’s innards being expertly manipulated into place. Like fear that turned to ecstasy, intestines twisting, heart beating fast, lungs heaving with shallow breaths, muscles tensed, body spurred into action, clamoring to move, move, move, do or die, fight or run. Like a bucket of water stacked atop an ajar door, or a staircase coated in lye soap, or a rotten egg hidden within a leather boot. Like clever tricks and petty little schemes and the hushed laughter of infuriating brats.

Just one word –a simple one really—accompanied by an awkward shrug and a wry smile.

“Aye.”

It had barely passed Oberan’s lips before a guttural shout drowned it out, washed it away with a wave of rage and bloodlust and spittle –or tried to. It persisted regardless, echoing in the ears of those who’d heard it, fading gradually like a fogged-up memory. Persisting even as the silhouette of Kasoria splattered another shade’s cranial matter all over the floor. Fast, precise, brutal. No mercy.

Oberan spoke again, directing the assassin to the stage, where Sintra’s form couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be on fire or not. A nod, a smirk, and the both of them rushed off. As fast as their legs could carry them. Kasoria leading the way, swiftly weaving a path through groups of battling shapes, over the dead and critically wounded, around the corpses of burning spiders.

Kasoria smashed through those who'd block their path, crushing bone and splitting flesh with each strike of his hammer. Oberan taking care of those that came from the sides, interrupting attacks with well-aimed blows of his gauntleted fists, dropping others as his Domain leeched their strength away. Ducking out of range of swipes and swings, grabbing foes and using them as pivots, momentum steering them in the path of their comrades. Half an eye on the unrecognizable figure of Kasoria, not allowing anyone to approach his back so the assassin could focus on what he did best.

Kill.

Lashing out with magic and hammer and bloody-knuckled fists.

Suddenly, the way was clear.

Both of them ran up a ramp, made it onto the stage. Job done, package delivered. He topped Kasoria’s Thrill one more time before he lost him amidst the faceless horde Sintra surrounded herself with.

He backed away, body language altered to disappear from view, slipping through the fighters, unable to tell which side most were on. Those who’d turned their blades on Sintra were obvious, but the the humanoid silhouettes? Those he knew to be Tower Guard clashing with the remainder of the Immortal's Guard? Which was which? This should be the perfect place for his abilities to weigh the odds in Etzos’s favor, if only he had a source to draw Thrill from. With the her poison coursing through his body, there was nothing Oberan could do.

Instead he scampered up one of the pillars of the arena, aiming for the flat surface at its top. Hauling himself over the edge, he assessed his position, and found it to his liking. Far enough from the stage to get a good view, yet close enough so he could still be useful. A flick of his wrist unfurled his sling, which he loaded with lead bullets.

Leather whirred and hummed like an angry wasp as it spun faster and faster, becoming a blur. Oberan took aim, then launched his projectile at Sintra’s humongous form. Even from this distance it’d be difficult to miss, regardless of her bursts of blinding speed.

And indeed, the lead ball did impact Sintra’s shining carapace. Rather than denting her natural armor, however, the projectile bounced off and clattered onto the stage with no harm done. A weapon that could cripple a horse –or kill instantly if it struck the skull—meant nothing to an Immortal demi-spider clad in black plate, it seemed.

Though Oberan did not let it dishearten him. Wounding his aunt had never been the intention; that was what he needed Kas and Flaxxo for. Harmless or not, certainly she’d still feel the metal bullets impact her giant form, especially whenever he managed to hit the humanoid torso on top. No, his aim was not to contribute by adding more injuries. It was by doing what he did best.

Annoying people.

Distracting her. Hoping to trip her up at crucial moments.

He fired another bullet.

Again and again.

Until suddenly the spider vanished, and Sintra became yet another indistinguishable silhouette. Another tree in the forest. Gone. Perfectly hidden.

He lowered his sling, and cussed.

[Kasoria]

Not with a bang, but a whimper. Not with a whimper, but a crescendo. In torrents of blood or the merest, final gasp of a last breath. On a field of thousands or two souls slugging away until only one was left. Kasoria didn't care how it happened. He didn't care who struck the final blow so long as it was done, and long as the battle was won-

No, not won-

Finished. All the seasons and cycles and arcs had cost blood and lives to get here. Every moment she stayed, she corrupted, like a leper traipsing pus and rot wherever she trod. She had taken the most fiercely mortal city in the world and nearly toppled it into just another abomination-fawning farm of supplicants, fodder, and slaves. Kasoria knew the purging of totrial would last for tentrials, seasons, even arcs after. It would be ugly and savage and the lynch mobs and burnings would claim many lives.

He struggled to find some part of him that cared. They were traitors. To home and kin and ancestors. But first, they needed to win. First, they needed this to end.

"Too predictable!"

Which, oh-so-fucking-funnily enough, was almost what happened to him. Time froze as he heard Sintra's words and the blink of his leap stretched to far longer. Long enough for him to wonder exactly how badly he'd buggered up his last chance... only for no killing blow came. Only a darkly satisfied growl from Flaxxo, and then his hands were around the hilt of Shadow Slayer, and he landed with a roll, blade out to his side-

Come!

-ether flooding through his body and into the blade, lightning arcing and hissing and snapping like writhing blue snakes from pommel to tip. Even the Tower Guard took a hasty step away from him, as if the sparking energies would somehow lash out at them, too. Kasoria barely noticed them. Flaxxo had struck well, and blood now flowed from the form on the stage. She stared at it, and he... he saw her face. Saw the look she wore, the emotions roiling across it.

"Immortal... wadda fuckin' joke."

He said loud enough for his words to carry around the stage. Loud enough for SIntra to look up in outrage and realize just how alone she was on it, if she chose to.

"Yeh bleed. Yeh hurt. Yeh tire. Jus' like us... wi' more tricks."

Kasoria started to stalk towards her, already shadowed by her bulk and feeling not a dram of fear. Quite the opposite, evidenced by the rolling chuckle of black amusement that slithered out of him.

“Oh, youse can die, yer fuckin' madj. Jus’ like her sister did. I’ve seen it a’fore. Here: I'll show yeh-"

He moved so fast the after-image of Shadow Slayer seemed to hang in the air as he lunged. In the space it took to blink, he'd hurled himself forwards, then pirouetting to the side before whatever Sintra could hurl at him would land, and then he was at her side. Taking full advantage of her confusion, her focus at some figure elsewhere he couldn't make out... but then she was of her senses again. Realizing how along she was just as Kasoria swung the three-foot long sword at her side, white-hot blade eager to carve through her inhuman torso and send a thunderstorm of energy pulsing through her-

And then, she was gone.

The air popped as a thousand pounds or so of chitin and mutated monster vanished and the air rushed in to fill the void. Kasoria could have whimpered in childish disappointment that he didn't feel the delicious, delightful, definite crunch and cleave of his sword carving a goddess in half. Instead Shadow Slayer parted air and mist. Stopped as his strike ended, and all around him, the silence spread from where she was like ripples.

Cries. Wails. Curses and sobs of disbelief. Abandoned. We are abandoned. Mistress, please return. Please.

Kasoria's bone-deep disgust snapped him from his confusion. He swept a furious, black-eyed gaze around and saw still dozens of men and women with tears in their eyes. All fight fled from them now their anchor, their mistress, their goddess had left them. The people they'd been fighting moments ago had, in true Etzori fashion, not wasted the chance to twat them skull-side when they weren't looking. Body after body dropped. Maybe a score. Still they stared. Still they wept. Until the silence spread even further... and Kasoria felt a huge, armored figure step to his side.

"Did... you do that?"

Kasoria turned to Flaxxo, then to Shadow Slayer. It was a potent weapon. Properly deployed... maybe a god-killer. Against one weakened and trapped in a mortal form, perhaps. But he didn't like it. This didn't feel like an ending. More of an escape. He could almost hear mocking laughter on the breeze and as he called his Sparks back into himself, turning Shadow Slayer into just another... admittedly quit beautiful sword, he sheathed it and growled.

"Nah. Not wi' this thing..."

Something is wrong. She didn't die. She just fucked off.

So find her.

"Oi," he said without any more preamble, remembering a few ticks too late that he was likely still standing only because Oberan's... gifts, were keeping him upright. It didn't matter. He strode to the Mortal-born and looked him in the eyes. No judgement or hatred or disdain in them. They'd come too far to mind such petty things, and still, there was no ending. "F'youse were a spider in Etzos, where'd youse bugger off to? C'mon, think fast!"

He looked around as Oberan thought.. and then his brow furrowed again.

Vuda was gone. So was the necro that had summoned the thralls. And now Sintra, too.

Fuck's sake. Is it really too much to ask to just slot this cunt and call it a trial?

[Ulric]

1 Cylus 721 | Ulric | Crescent Arena

The battle was taken to Sintra and Ulric was reluctant to join it. She was a nightmare of speed and fury that he could not hope to keep up with at any range closer than the distance which separated them now. If he attacked her, he would die again. He could handle any number of her goons but the immortal? He'd leave that to those with magic and superior training. There was a moment where it seemed the living had actually gained the upper hand against Sintra but Ulric had doubts. It took an entire army to stop Lisirra but that had been in her own domain. Still... Ulric was not versed in how the powers of the Immortals worked and so he was concerned. Then it happened, Sintra saw him. She was looking for a way out and she saw him... and she sought her revenge.

It helped in a lot of ways. She'd have destroyed him and he saw that plainly in the moment it happened. She would not seek to use him as the seed of her return or a seed to spread her power elsewhere. She would destroy him. Their eyes locked across all the bloodshed and death, and he felt Alex screaming in his head. It was deafening and Ulric's hands clamped down over his ears. He let out a pained groan and began to wobble on his feet, stumbling forward into a kneeling position. The scream continued, the sound of a young boy in agony. There was no fear in the scream but Ulric could not differentiate fear from bravery in the moment. He only heard the pain. A stream of impressions and feelings flowed through Ulric as he clutched his head. Impressions of one who was far more accepting of their demise than Ulric had been of his. Then Alex was gone. The scream ended and there was silence. He'd been erased so Ulric could live. No... not Ulric.

In that moment he realized more clearly than ever before what he needed to do. Destroy Ulric. Let it be believed that Sintra undid his resurrection and flee. Break away from the life, the past, all of it. His body shimmered and he screamed as if in pain, he was no actor but with the exhaustion of battle wearing on him it was not hard. Then he vanished and his scream ended, a feat of his materialization abilities. He was still there, still standing in the same spot and still watching everything in the battle, but he was hidden and would remain so until it was all over. He'd travel through the bodies of others rather than his own to convince people Ulric was dead for good. If Sintra looked for him, she'd find much of what she found when other ghosts had their resurrections revoked, nothing at all.

There was a loud boom and Ulric recognized the direction it had come from, having been in her domain for his resurrection. He didn't care. All that mattered now was the new plan. He looked around, eyes wildly seeking something he could possess to escape the city and assume a new life. There was a blonde man, roughly in his thirties, with a cut across his forehead that had caused blood to paint one half of his face. He must have been trampled by those fleeing when the spiders lit aflame. Ulric moved over and possessed the weak man, using his injuries to overcome his will easily and then using tendrils while inside the man's body to help get him upright. By now Sintra, the necromancer, and Vuda had all vanished leaving the battlefield in relative peace. The final skirmishes were coming to an end and Kasoria stood with Oberan where Sintra had been moments before.

He wanted to know where she was but Ulric didn't think it would matter. They'd missed her here. If they chased her they would chase her into her domain. Don't follow the spider into her web. Accept your victory and be glad. Ulric thought without voicing it. He took one more glance around at the victors before slowly beginning to back away from them towards the exit. It was over, was it not? Time to flee.

[Neronin]

“You’ll wait your turn like the rest.” Vuda finished, his calm ominous in the silent hall of the museum. “No cutting in line.” As if he determined the paths to immortality. As if Vuda knew all the secrets Neronin had sought in life.

But the well was in his grasp, the knowledge in his mind, and the power in that oldest of his sparks. What more was magic than knowledge and power? Neronin tightened his grip on the smooth, dark surface of the stone and loosened his grasp on humanity in one motion. He could shrug off that moral mantle and take up the invulnerability of undeath, and thus ensure his goals would be reached.

They stared at each other, both waiting to see what he would do. As he stared at that old enemy in Vuda he saw his other enemies as well. Gavrel stood there judging and denying as he had always done, and beyond him his apathetic mother and his cruel father. A loveless story, a pitiless story. A common story. Neronin shook the delusion from his mind’s eye. Why live in the past when the here and the now held his dreams?

“I will not wait.” Neronin said slowly, gauging Vuda’s reaction to his sudden breach of their unspoken contract. “I have waited too long as is.” The man who ruled Etzos while hidden away behind others also hid his emotions behind an impassive, if utterly alien face. He had made the mistake of teaching Neronin Abrogation, gifting him the very tool he could use to block other magics. Neronin wanted to smile. He wondered if Vuda was remembering that as well. He would now regret the tutelage.

Neronin released the power of his necrotic spark. It was not a summoning of power or a strain on his will. It was a relaxing of his mind and a release of tension. The necrotic spark now took up so much real estate in his soul that holding it back was more difficult than summoning it. With the well in his hand that was more true than ever. It swirled within himself like some sort of emotional storm.

The spark’s edges seeped into the Dark Star well and it began to heat in his hand. The necrotic spark dominated the others, beginning to pull his Abrogation and Rupture sparks in its wake. Quickly Neronin halted the progress with his mind long enough to fling up an Abrogation barrier between himself and Vuda. In that briefest space of time the Necrotic spark boiled within him in rage at his obstacle in its way to immortality.

The outpour of magic into the Dark Star began to quicken. Neronin could feel lethargy settling into himself. A cold chill that bit deeper than even the Necromantic touch on his body caused a bone deep shiver. The mage realized that the spark was also pulling his soul into the Dark Star along with all its other tools. He remembered the death of the body was part of the Lichdom ritual, but he had never thought it would be induced by the spark itself. Through a sheer force of will the spark was yanking everything that made him himself through the conduit of power.

Neronin found he had long ago lost the will to resist that Spark. He left his body in the torrent of arcane power that he had fostered and grown since that first initiation with Gavrel. Memory faded, sense faded, and he was simply a consciousness in a stream of arcane power. He was vaguely aware of a sense of triumph as the three sparks and his soul reached some destination he could not remember seeking. He felt a panic set in as he realized he could not breath anymore. Could not feel his body.

All was well though, the sparks moved to comfort him. They swirled around him protectively. And then they were once again in their body, a chamber of vast ether. It stretched out forever and he sensed the necrotic spark spreading to fill it and consume all the ether. Their journey ended and once again equilibrium set in.

Then he rode the necrotic spark back into the nearby body and suddenly he remembered. He could blink, he could sit up, he could stand. The spark urged him gently to do so and he followed its instructions. The necromancer was on the floor of the museum’s entry hall. He stood and found Vuda with his eyes.

The spark was overjoyed, and he mimicked that joy with a wildly childlike grin. They had achieved the penultimate goal, and he had been a part of it. He could remember he had helped the spark achieve it. They had done it together. But he did not dwell on that, because the dark tendrils of the spark wrapped heavily around those memories and no matter how he asked it to unravel, it did not.

“We are beyond life and death now.” The spark said through the body’s lips. “We are-“ but it stopped.

The Dark Star well lay on the ground, having rolled away in the body’s death. It now lay between them and Vuda. The spark lunged forward, but met a barrier in the empty space between them. It lashed out with magic, but the ether simmered away against it. He could feel the immense power there when the spark attacked with their body, and it reminded him of the immensity of the Dark Star.

The spark began to yell. “No, no no!” And as Vuda stepped forward to retrieve the Dark Star well the screams shifted from the human tongue to an animalistic rage. The spark’s anger scared him. He whimpered in the things mind before a whip of willpower lashed against him to silence him.

Vuda picked up the Dark Star well. The spark exploded with rage and power. A massive torrent of dark magic burst from it and engulfed the entire hall in its rage, pressing the attack against the shield Vuda had placed. The Abrogator shook his head in faint disappointment as he held the Dark Star close. Then he did something to the well that Neronin nor his sparks could understand.

The mage felt a deep sense of terror as something become wrong. They were suddenly cut off from their body. The vast expanse of ether was no longer theirs. The necrotic spark frantically tried to return to its source, but could not. Suddenly their ether source was finite and they all began to scramble in their collective consciousness. The Rupture spark was being eaten away by the all consuming Necrotic spark in a frantic attempt to gain time. It curled itself about the Abrogation spark and flung it into the path of the Necrotic in an attempt to satiate the thing. In the blink of an eye he felt that one aspect of himself wither and die. They would never raise another barrier. Soon after the necrotic spark began to consume the Rupture spark also.

Eventually it was destroyed as well. And then the spark set its desperate gaze on him. He could feel the power wrapping around him in the body and they stumbled back. The spark was no longer fighting to return to the Dark Star. Its thrashing was now akin to a drowning man fighting to stay on the surface one moment longer. He whined as the hateful power wrapped around his helpless soul. He found his soul was weak, having diminished so much to make room for the spark over the years. It was hardly adequate to put up a fight against such power.

Everywhere the spark touched he felt pain and loss. It burned away memories of his childhood, it burned away memories of Noth and Navyri and Kovic. It burned away memories of Gavrel and Vuda. It burned everything, consuming to stay afloat a moment longer. It burned and left only pain. He let out a high pitched whine as the panic and confusion was all that was left him.

Then it was cut off and the body toppled to the floor.

[Maltruism]

Rebirth and Return

Vuda displayed no reaction as his ex-pupil flouted his defiance. It did, in fact, make things easier for him. In his newfound arrogance, Neronin would surely take his ex-mentor's inaction as proof that he was powerless to intervene. And Vuda knew that if he actually waited for the lich ritual to be completed, he would be making things much more difficult for himself. The purified, prioritized rise of the one spark, would bring a clarity and focus that would all-too-quickly magnify the power Neronin now wielded.

But as things stood now, there was still inner contention between the young mage's sparks. The two lesser sparks would resist the ascension of the necromantic spark, in much the same way the collection of Highbend mages would vie for supremacy once the balance of power was upset.

A sad hint of a chuckle escaped Vuda's Praetorian lips as Neronin erected an Abrogative shield on some ill-conceived gesture of defense against the power of a revealed Praetorian. As the young mage's initiator into the domain of Abrogation, Vuda had a more innate grasp of what the necromancer was doing, and how it would "feel" to the both of them. And it was not a coincidence that Vuda had used necromancy as one of the initiating domains in the first place. It had been as a safeguard against just this sort of development.

Vuda's Nemesis call against necromancy was particularly aligned with Neronin's exact spark as a result. In the same initiating ritual that had allowed Neronin to get a feel for the flow of the nullifying force of Abrogation, Vuda had gotten a far more precise feel for the flow of the younger mage's power.

He swept aside Neronin's shield and immediately replaced it with an identical field of his own. With the necromantic spark exerting its dominance over the others, it also isolated the mage's own senses, making him unaware of the change. The Nemesis field was crafted with such subtle similarity to the innate signature of Neronin's Abrogative magic, and trimmed with the sense of his exclusive "flavor" of necromancy, that the over-eager spark and its host mortal did not immediately perceive how much more power it was costing the spark to complete its draining of Neronin's life.

Still, the young mage soon fell dead, the spark rejoicing even as the well tumbled from nerveless fingers to roll towards Vuda.

But physical death, of course, was part of the process. The new lich consciousness roused from death and looked upon his ex-mentor with glib malice, "We are beyond life and death now." he gloated, starting to embellish his triumph with additional crowing. Even as he started to speak this second taunt, however, it wavered in uncertainty on his lips with the recognition of Vuda's failure to show any degree of alarm.

The Praetorian usurped his oratory with an ominous response, "But you are not beyond ME..." The over-eager spark had been allowed to ascend without fully suppressing the other two sparks first. Now this came back to unravel their collective goal. Vuda walked forward to collect the dark well, his gaze then slowly rising to meet the eyes of the impurely conceived lich with a void of compassion. "I will not say it grieves me to do this, young fool. You at least deserve honesty here, at the moment of your ending."

Vuda opened himself to the flow of the Abolish ability. Not an actual attack, not a combatant approach to overpower. It was the culmination of all Abrogative understanding. The ability to reverse the well's flow of power back into Emea, undoing the structure and focus of the item in the process, returning it to its raw, swirling element beyond the barriers.

The necromantic spark did not go peacefully, of course, but its unravelling was inevitable, the very expenditure of its power to resist only speeding the process by which it was undone, taking the element of the unliving Neronin with it, as nothing more than a newly unravelled thread of necromantic ether now dispersed collectively into Emea without consciousness; that last aspect being viewed by Vuda as a mercy.

The last echoes of Neronin's desperate pleas and protests died out in the grand exhibit hall of the museum as Vuda dropped, exhausted, to his own knees. Even though the powers of Neronin's lesser sparks had unwittingly aided him by contending with the darker spark at a time when a full focus may have saved it, Vuda had used the better part of three trials' worth of power to abolish the phylactery, and its inhabiting lich.

His head spun and the floor seemed to heave beneath him as a cruel voice boomed, one admittedly not focused on him specifically, but clearly meant to include everyone still alive in Etzos.


"So, you would drive me out! You would show such ingratitude for my aid against my sister, choosing your insolent city over my own sibling! Fine then! Have it your way! I will not suffer a single one of my children to stay where they go so unappreciated! See how quickly your great city is now overrun with insects!" Vicious laughter blended with the echoes of Sintra's voice as those still battling on her behalf looked up in utter defeat, the knowledge of their abandonment written grimly on their faces.

But it was not to be...

A second voice boomed. Parhn's, enhanced by the Hone workings on his armor, rose to call for an end to the battle; rose to call for ALL to drop their weapons; Pros and Cons alike; rose to insist that no more Etzori should die on Sintra's altar.

Protests and disbelieving backlash were almost instantaneous. Parhn allowed the venting of this fury when he saw that the shock of his command had largely accomplished his goal. Even those that were being villified as traitors stared dumbly toward the stage, though they instinctively clung to defensive formations regardless of the sudden fall in the sounds of clashing steel.

Those feeling themselves to have remained loyal throughout gaped in undisguised rage. but so long as the fighting steadily waned, Parhn stood forth in the face of it, letting it spend itself. Soon he lifted a hand, the universal call for a chance to account for his command. "Stand down, people of Etzos! I am the one to blame for this tragedy, not them. Given the combination of the traps and manipulations wielded by Sintra, do you truly feel that many of those you view right now as enemies might not have been misled? May not have realized it until it was too late to ask for quarter? May have had situations far more easily exploited and corrupted than what you yourself faced? And now have seen no chance for the opportunity for atonement or redemption in the hateful faces turned against them by their own brothers and sisters?"

Counter arguments were immediately shouted back. Again Parhn allowed them to be heard for a full bit before raising his hand again. "I am no fool. I am well aware that some have embraced the tyranny she would have imposed, siding with her evil for no more reason than to taste power and indulge in her cruelty. But these are people that are already corrupt. They should not take down those who may be even now realizing the horrible mistake they have made.

"I ask that those of you currently in a posture of having defended Sintra drop your weapons and armor and surrender immediately. If you do not do so, you will be summarily judged to be beyond redemption, harboring intent to resume hostility, and the verdict will be as swift as it will be severe. Those of you fearing to drop your weapons out of concern that those loyal to Etzos will strike you down once disarmed, know that my verdict will be every bit as harsh against them if they do."

Grumbling accompanied the reluctant collection of weapons from the engulfed formation of those having clung to Sintra loyalty, but only a few bursts of violence occurred, quickly stemmed. many of the once Pro-Sintra survivors dropped in tearful gratitude to their knees for this chance to atone.

"Do not thank me too quickly. Understand that you will be watched closely now. You have given us righteous cause to doubt your true loyalty. You must still prove that this is no feigned gesture, and I can not yet venture a guess how long it will take to convince the rest of us that it is genuine. You may no longer wield a weapon of any kind until you have regained our trust, or until some crisis necessitates your recruitment as defenders of Etzos. Turn then against us a second time and I promise nothing will save you!"

Resentment clearly prevailed as those who had remained loyal saw what seemed like a mere slap on the wrist for those that had slain friends and family. Parhn's voice rang out once more, "I am the one that invited her here. Their failings are as much mine. Had she not been here, there would not have been such a powerful corruptive influence against those with such vulnerabilities. You feel that a traitor's intent has been revealed in these people? Is there no mistake you have ever made in the erroneous belief that you were doing what was best? Maybe instead you should count yourself lucky that she did not turn her vile influence more fully upon you; that you were lucky that she did not target you as someone more useful to manipulate to this end."

There was still grumbling, but it was waning quickly. The sooner the better too, as Parhn could hear a loathsome truth in Sintra's words.

[Oberan]

She’s gone, Oberan thought, eyes scanning the chaotic mass of battling silhouettes beneath him. The Immortal’s pressure dwindled, the sheer amount of divine ether –so thick in the air it was palpable-- emitted during the combat slowly dispersing as she removed herself from the Crescent Arena. Not just returned to human form to blend with the crowd. Truly gone. Fleeing.

Oberan did not know how to feel about it. Relieved the Etzori hadn’t torn her body to pieces and stuck her head on a pike? Immortals didn’t often die permanently when they were destroyed on Idalos, so her death at Etzori hands might have been one of the worst case scenarios, likely cementing a strong grudge against them. On the other hand, there was a measure of disappointment she wasn’t dead. Oberan held no particular fondness for his aunt, and she was sure to try and seek revenge in some way. It sounded bothersome.

But facts were facts. Sintra, like a cockroach, refused die, and instead fled. Oberan pictured a quick escape, body a blur of motion that streaked to safety. Likely wounded, though not mortally so. Indubitably more of a tactical retreat rather than an outright Etzori victory. If she really wanted to, Sintra could have crushed all who dared foil her plans, all who would raise their blades against her. At a gruesome cost to herself, of course. Regardless of her state afterwards, she would be victorious.

But that wasn’t Sintra’s way of doing things. Even when enraged, she saw no benefit in such course of action, and so she ran. Echoes of her voice cursing and swearing, and laughing as she declared her intent to bring all spiders hiding in all sorts of dark corners and cracks and nooks and crannies along. Removing them all from the city, skewing the natural order of things, collapsing the careful balance of the food chain. And as Etzos got overrun by bugs and insects –a new plague to replace the old—she’d have the last laugh.

Supposedly.

Oberan sighed, and clambered down the pillar, already feeling the adrenaline drain away, all the pain and exhaustion rushing back with a vengeance. Body growing heavy, the soft thumping of bleeding wounds coming to the fore and increasing in magnitude. Sliding the last couple feet to the ground, his knees buckled, and he plopped in the sand. Dragged his back to the pillar, and closed his eyes. For a few moments, at least, he’d have some peace. Every single part of him oozed pure exhaustion. Even his Domain –which Oberan had never worked as hard as he did today, and he had assumed to be a bottomless well of power to draw on—crumpled like a burnt-out wick.

Pahrn’s voice boomed, calling for surrender of the abandoned pro-Sintra faction, and for the anti-Sintra Etzori to lay down their weapons. He only listened with half an ear, sagging in on himself as he nodded off for a few seconds at a time.

Until someone nudged him with a foot, none too gently, and he found himself staring up in the eyes of a blood-soaked figure. Still indistinguishable from the rest, Sintra’s poison still burning in Oberan's veins. Yet the voice and accent were familiar.

“Kas,” Oberan mumbled, as if half asleep, “Probably the underground. Her lair was somewhere down there.” Then he grinned, coughing out a breath. It might have been a chuckle. “Or, you might find her outside of the city entirely, if her words are to be believed. She seemed very cross.” One of his arms gestured with languid motions, strength draining quickly now, and Oberan winced and sucked in a breath as it tore and twisted at his wounds. “But I wouldn’t bother. You can feel it, can’t you? Not much time left. Better find a spot to have a lie down, else you’ll collapse where you stand. My power’s got a price, and unfortunately the bill’s due right now. Nothing I can do about that, except postpone and make it worse.”

A deep, deep sigh, eyelids falling back down. It took so much effort keeping them up. “You won’t be able to move for a while, I don’t think. I made your body push itself far past your limits, it’ll need time to recover. Not going to be … pleasant… Best to sleep … through it as much you can… Take advantage of the pain still being dulled… hard to fall asleep when… it returns… all at…. once…”