Character Biography - Cyric

Born in the slums of Zhentil Keep, Cyric (seer-ick) is the son of a Zhentarim officer and the young woman who adored him. The officer openly denied the woman's charge of paternity and cast her into the streets. The homeless of Zhentil Keep cared for the woman, and helped her through delivery. After learning of his son's birth, the officer killed the young woman and sold Cyric into slavery.

A short time later, Cyric was purchased by a rich Sembian family, who raised him as their own in a life of luxury. A highly intelligent child, Cyric always felt that he was different from the other children he grew up with. His suspicions were confirmed at age 10, while overhearing his parents arguing over him. Cyric immediately ran away from home, but was stopped and returned by a civil patrol. Cyric's complaints at the patrol's actions caused his true origins to spread throughout the city, forcing his parents to become social outcasts. When he again left home at age 12, no one stopped him.

Alone in an unfamiliar world, Cyric learned survival skills in the wild before moving on to life on city streets. Becoming adept at thievery, Cyric drew the attention of the Thieves' Guild. Earning their approval and support, Cyric remained with the guild for four years. At 16, Cyric left to spend the next eight years pursuing his love of travel, and learning that people were the same no matter where he went. At the end of his travels, Cyric secretly returned to Zhentil Keep to further explore his origins. He may have met his father there, but the man was killed before Cyric could question him.

Convinced that a life of thievery was wrong, Cyric became a fighter of little consequence. However, during a quest in the Jungles of Chult, he crossed paths with one Kelemvor Lyonsbane. It was Kelemvor who convinced Cyric to join the guard of Arabel, where he met Adon, cleric of Sune Firehair. Together, the three worked for Myrmeen Lhal, protecting her lands, until confronted by Midnight. Thus began Cyric's path to greatness.

Cyric continued to follow the path of goodness until Lady Mystra's rescue. Mystra offered the group anything they wished in appreciation for her freedom. Kelemvor asked only for fresh horses and rations. Mystra found it strange that they did not request god-hood. Upon hearing this, Cyric began to think.

Following the battle against Lord Bane's forces at Shadowdale, Cyric left the party and struck out on his own, leading a small group of Zhent warriors on his yet unseen quest to become a god. During his travels, Cyric came into the possession of a rose-hued, vampiric sword, which came to play a significant role in Cyric's career. Crossing paths with his former companions several times, Cyric was responsible for the death of Bhaal, Lord of Murder. Having tasted the blood of a god, Cyric's new weapon hungered for more, thus increasing Cyric's desire to destroy his one-time friends.

Concluding the Avatar crisis, Cyric faced his final confrontation as a mortal atop Blackstaff Tower in Waterdeep. There, he not only destroyed his second God, Lord Myrkul, he also found his revenge against the hated Kelemvor Lyonsbane. (It has been pointed out that Midnight actually killed Myrkul; a fact which Cyric denies.) The sword drank eagerly of its victim's blood, and Kelemvor was no more, for now... With the original quest of recovering the Tablets of Fate, Overlord Ao, creator of the Realms and of the gods themselves, descended upon Toril and spoke to its inhabitants. Lord Ao declared that all gods become servants to their followers, that Midnight take Mystra's place as Goddess of Magic, and that Cyric shall take control of what was left undone by the deaths of Myrkul, Bane, and Bhaal. And, while Cyric found this responsibility quite an honor, Lord Ao was unsure he'd continue with that reasoning.

Some time later, Lord Ao returned to resurrect the Lord of Murder in the Moonshae Isles. Bhaal's second coming was short-lived, and Cyric became the official caretaker of the Church of Assassins. Meanwhile, Cyric joined forces with Mask (Lord of Shadows) to murder Leira, Lady of the Mists, giving Cyric the powers of Deception and Illusion.

Ten years passed since the Time of Troubles, and Cyric grew restless. His latest scheme involved a tome he called The Cyrinishad. Three hundred and ninety-seven versions were created until Cyric was satisfied. The tome, dubbed "The Book of Lies" by other gods of the pantheon, outlined the "true" history (in Cyric's mind) of the "One True God." But Cyric did not stop there. The Cyrinishad was a magical creation, with the intention that anyone reading the tome would believe, without question, that all other gods were false; even the gods themselves...

Many gods could not abide by these actions. Midnight, with the help of Oghma (The Binder) and Mask, The Cyrinishad's final version was placed in protective custody, but not before it had been read by Mask. Cyric had gained yet another follower.

In his final battle as Lord of the Dead, with Bone Castle crumbling about him, Cyric's rose-hued sword (now dubbed Godsbane) revealed that there was a traitor in his castle. Realizing that it was, in fact, the sword who had betrayed him, Cyric took the sword above his head and snapped it in two. Chaos ensued, and the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane, trapped those ten years within the accursed sword, escaped to exact revenge against his one-time ally. Another form also emerged from the sword: The spirit of the sword itself - Mask, Lord of Shadows. Begging for forgiveness as Cyric attempted to salvage what he could of the situation, Mask followed his new master out of the castle. The City of Strife was no more.

As the aftermath was sorted out, the tormented souls of Cyric's former kingdom looked to Kelemvor for new guidance. Lord Lyonsbane looked out across his new lands, and declared a new era of Law and Justice in the Land of the Dead.

In the following years, Cyric became despondent, neglecting his godly duties. Sadly, he was also driven mad by the powers of his own Cyrinishad, completely believing everything contained within, unable to distinguish lies from truth. Several of the gods, led by Tyr, placed Cyric on trial, charged with Innocence by reason of Insanity. Around the same time, Cyric's precious chronicle The Cyrinishad was stolen. Upon hearing this, one of Cyric's most devout followers, one Malik el Sami yn Nasser sought out the tome, in order to return it to his god. For this service, Cyric bestowed upon Malik the status of "Seraph of Lies."

In a cruel twist of fate, Malik became the target of a truth spell cast by the goddess Mystra. As such, Malik is completely unable to tell a lie. Using this curse as a tool, Mystra called upon Malik to read The True Life of Cyric as written by several good gods and set to paper by Oghma. Naturally, Malik had no desire to do such a thing, so decided to tell the tale of Cyric as all worshippers had heard it since childhood. Unfortunately, this also counted as lies, and Malik was forced to read the book as printed. Cover to cover. Upon completing the text, Cyric became calm, and his sanity was once again restored. This, however, does not make him easier to deal with.

Malik el Sami yn Nasser, Seraph of Lies, continues to travel the world, spreading the influence of Cyric, within the confines of his curse.

"In a hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric awoke... There was a new kingdom to build. After all, Cyric was still a deity -- God of Strife and Intrigue, Patron of Murder. As such, he deserved a palace of suitable size to accomodate his horde of worhipers, a mammoth treasure house to store the spoils of his victorious war against Mystra and the Circle of Greater Powers... As always, the pantheon had been puppets, playing the parts Cyric created for them.

For an instant, the Prince of Lies heard the babel of voices in his head chime harmonious agreement. None of them could deny his absolute supremacy over all the gods in Faern. The Cyrinishad proved the truth of that, and Cyric himself had read the tome very carefully.

All across the mortal realms, a disembodied smile appeared in the most squalid alleys and haunted, shadow-draped woods. Broad and sharp, glinting like a straight razor in the moonlight, it hinted at the mad god's pleasure with a world well-suited to become his earthly kingdom. The true meaning of the apparitions eluded even the most gifted oracles. They wove dire but vague prophecies around the chilling visions, but, as was their wont, the men and women of Faerun heeded them little and went on with their chaotic, mundane lives.

In the hope-forsaken tunnel at the heart of Pandemonium, Cyric began to laugh. The world was doomed, but it kept running anyway.

-Epilogue, Prince of Lies, by James Lowder

Causation

KILL. DESTROY. MURDER. RAPE.

These were the tenants that Serpiente lived by, while he adhered to the laws of Cyric. These were the simple mandates that were programmed into his mind by the Churchs leadership. Unfortuantly, unlike sentient beings, who are able to forget mandates and start anew, Serpiente was not reprogrammed. This has led to a significant backlash in his archaic CPU and meager kobold mind.

Thus, in the years since the crash of the old churchs, Serpiente had been wandering aimlessly, carrying out his mandates as he saw fit, with a reckless abandon that saw the deaths of mothers, fathers, children, brothers and sisters. The joy of the kill would satiate his desire for the family he had lost, but only momentarily. Then the backlash from his confusion would deepen into an all-consuming rage.

One day he wandered into a small sleepy hamlet, complete with thatched huts, a small school and a beautiful stream running through the middle. His mind smiled at the thought of all the lives he would ruin this day. He prepared himself and entered,,, yet there was no one in the town,,,upon further inspection he found bodies everywhere, bodies with pierced necks and pale sickly white skin.

Serpiente was combat engineered and knew this enemy well. A lich had beaten him.  He loaded the programs necessary to destroy this enemy and proceeded with caution.

When he entered the church he saw one of the most macabre scenes his optical scanners had ever witnessed. Pieces of the priests and clergymen hung from the walls like makeshift banners, bones were used as decorations and it even appeared someone had been using the eyeballs for a game of marbles. Most horrible of all was the tell-tale signs of recent necrophilism.

In the middle of all this carnage sat a lone figure, legs crossed, patiently looking at Serpiente. As Serpiente approached his recognition software started to cross-reference the facial features of the figure. Small, lithe, maybe 3 feet tall, pale skin, and always that grin. Imitidoras.

Joy. Happiness. Two emotions that rarely flash through his CPU and brain are finally recognized. Yes, someone from the old family, someone who could relate. Imitidoras also recognizing his old comrade in arms was immediately taken aback. Finally, someone to ruin lives with.

KILL. DESTROY. MURDER. RAPE.

diary of a mad man in prison part 1

The bells went off in my head like a warning siren guiding a person to a bomb shed.  I must flee.  I must get out now but where was I, how was I going to go?  My church had failed me.  My church had failed me how the fuck did the church of Strife fail thee Rosso Aposso!  How is it possible for such an awesome god to just give in.  To fail under pressure of a new cause, of a new hope.  What was the hope I thought to myself study in the life of death?  Isn't that what the followers of Cyric did?  Kill people for the lust, for the joy, for the real god Cyric?  That is what I had thought all along.  Could the research of the death be just a church in disguise for the followers to go to when the One had left them all alone.  Of course not!  Cyric had failed me for the last time

Upon muttering those words a great beam of light came from the sky came down and knocked Rosso out cold. When he awoke he was in the billets of the long death campground. Maezura was studying the affects the blow had on my skull by putting tokens and different ointments on him trying to see what the adverse affects were. I woke with a start when he started to desecrate on my face! Seeing what that would do sure enough woke me right up. But I was dazed and confused I had no idea where I was or who I thought I knew. I learned to walk again learn to fight, learn to summon great powerful swarms of rocks stronger then I ever could have before. But I did not know whom I was just that I was some powerful wizard. I had these items of clothes on. I didn't know who I was. So I labeled them with people I've seen in the past just the people I could only remember in the wizard training area while I was learning to cast.

Dawn in the Afternoon

Emalia had slept soundly in her room, her sleep aided by dreams of the day prior. The dawn had already come and gone when she woke up, the time having passed well into the afternoon. It appeared no one had missed her as she slept - for not only was her family quiet, but the rest of the realms that requested aid seemed hushed.

Emalia rose from her bed, the crisp Uktar air having entered her quarters, and rushed to don her robe and boots. There was no mirror in her room - she had no need of things that would cause vanity. She pulled a brush from her pack and combed through her tangles. Certain of the scrolls she carried with her, Emalia set off to explore the realms around her. 'Perhaps,' she thought, 'I can surprise Hellstrom.'

The streets were oddly quiet as she left Westbridge and headed deep into the forest. Her footfalls seemed to be announced by the plethora of pine needles and dead leaves that crunched beneath her boots. Before long, however, she found herself in a grove much darker than all the rest. Fog rolled along the ground and in the center of the area, a giant black tree jutted from the ground.

Common sense told Emalia that she should turn around, but the idea of finding a completely new place that perhaps even Hellstrom didn't know about spurred her onward. Briars and nettles threatened to entangle her feet and the more care she took to be wary of them, the less she paid attention to the things around her, until a voice hissed out, "Greetings, Faithless."

Emalia locked eyes with what might have been the most horrible being she'd ever seen. In a moment, she was left staring at the top of his head, and simple as it seemed, found herself among those called the Jenovese, and one, in particular, named 'Grobnak'.

Curiously, she had no fear of the vision before her. Being that she had respect for all creatures, Emalia took Grobnak for what he was, and listened to what he had to say. The interesting turn, was that as she listened, it made sense. The Rok, The Rebirth, The Apprentice, and most of all... Balance.

She had learned that Cyric was evil through her mishaps with the tomes. She now found that a worse foe threatened life beyond her own: Ao, madness, evil, and the perpetual return of the Rok. The Apprentice would bring back the balance, he would bring about the return of a world with no Ragnarok in the sky, and Emalia could help.

To help bring about Balance, Emalia would join the Jenovese. She would spread the word. She would tell the world. She would be certain that her grandchildren's grandchildren would never have to live under the threat of the Rok again. She had a purpose beyond even what she had imagined. Her path, full of fateful coincidences, had once again led her to yet another reason. Emalia, for yet another time, felt as though she were truly an adult.

Trials

Emalia stared at the flyer with her mouth hanging open.  She honestly didn't think the day could have gotten any worse, but it just did. 

"Have You Seen Me? Gone from home around three weeks ago, Emalia Haverland still hasn't returned. She is around 5'7" with very long brown hair and is usually dressed in white. She is of a rather pale complexion, slender, and has brown eyes. If seen, please tell her that her mother is seeking her desperately. If this is Emalia, please, come home!"

Now that she focused her eyes, she could see hundreds of the papers on the sides of stalls, buildings, even littering the ground. The calm coming from her now nearly dropped her to her knees with weariness. She didn't really know what was inside her that made her this way, it just was and always was. If she was worried, anxious, angry, fearful, she suddenly found herself calm, and after it subsided, she tried her best to hide the fact that she was just exhausted. There was no one to ask except her father, and she couldn't seek him out. She was just too afraid, and too proud. Now this.

Emalia took a deep breath, collecting herself enough to rip the flyer from the wall. She went along the street, gathering all the flyers she could, hoping no one in her clan had seen them, no one that she knew had seen them, no one had seen them. Her hands were full when she reached a busier part of Market Square. "Hey, you Emalia?"

"Yes?" "Your mom is looking for you." "Ah, yes. Many thanks." "Hey, aren't you that girl?" "Yes... I know. Many thanks." "Oh! You know your mom is looking for you, judging from the pile of papers in your hands." "Yes, Many thanks."

If there was a better way of mortification, Emalia didn't know of it. She had given up reading the tomes of Cyric - luckily Hellstrom had explained to her the danger of the Cyrinishad before she had actually gotten to it. She hated to think that she would have been lost to her entire Guardian family and it shamed her deeply to think of how close she came. Then she ran into some man with a whip who spoke of shadows, slavery, Shar, and high blood - accusing her of being weak and weak minded for choosing not to endure whatever trials he thought testament to strength. Then there was Colin, who not only scared her with his enormity, but scared her more with his casual joking bride comment - which she really didn't see as much of a joke as she saw him quite a bit more frequently.

All this in one day...

Emalia collected all the parchments she could find as she took a last look up and down the streets of Westbridge. She hoped that everything was found and in her possession when she vanished to her room. The parchments rained down as Emalia threw them to the floor. She threw herself on the bed and for the first time she had known herself to - she cried. She at long last fell asleep, hoping this might be the last time she had to feel confusion, and that no one would ever know she had.

Home

Emalia sat in the middle of the herb garden, smelling each of the plants that grew around her.  Only days before she had been with no one but herself, the idle chit-chat of strangers, and her books.  Today, she was a Crimson Guardian.  She took in a deep breath and smiled to herself while she looked over the insignia she wore.  It seemed like a dream.

Fizz trotted up to her, nudging her shoulder with a nickering whinny, snapping Emalia from her reverie. "Oh my newest friend, what is it you desire?" A snort tickled Emalia's cheek as she was again nudged. "A carrot. Coming right up." Emalia rose to her feet, chanting a quick line for a quick treat. She smiled deeply as Fizz tossed the carrot into the air, only to chomp down on it and hop away like a colt.

Emalia felt automatically at home, marginally concerned that she had still not heard from her family, save her Uncle Sandorin, who had vanished again from her life. She sat again in the herbs, her mind drifting from her travel to Westbridge, to her journey into the Guardians, then to the events of the day. Immediately, a frown crossed her features.

Emalia knew she was born with abilities different from many. Her mother made sure she knew it - when she wasn't talking to herself - but Emalia wasn't quite sure what they were. She had harmed Elbryan with a simple spell, but couldn't place a finger on why or even how. Holding back a few tears, Emalia bit her lip, her pride stinging as she thought of exactly how she felt like such a failure. She'd harmed someone...

A deep neigh wrested her from her thoughts and a sense of calm flooded her. Fizz stared at her with deep brown eyes - already she could feel a connection with him. "Another?" She stood again, repeating her earlier incantation, and shook her head with a grin as Fizz repeated his.

In the quiet of the gardens, Emalia centered herself deciding that the silence would allow her to read. Certain that Fizz was finally contented, she slipped another violet-bound tome from her pack. By any sense she was a quick reader, it only taking her a day to pour through the thick volumes. She began in again reading through Cyric's past, pushing all her thoughts of home, family, and failure to the side. The texts flowed with detail, almost vividly leaping from the page. Emalia was so mesmerized that even Fizz's insistent nudges did nothing to rouse her.

Seline's journal pg 14

Two days later, I met this Samoth. A dedicated Cyricist if I ever were to describe dedication to - insanity. He foamed at the mouth and tried to intimidate me by threats of torture - acted the complete raving maniac...I left rather than hear any more of his ravings. Annother couple of days past and I finally was able to speak with Queen Simbul. I explained the problem with the key and dilemma about destroying it in the first place. She gave me an example of one of the Seven that did destroy a Gift from Mystra. Weak example considering that the one destroying the item..was one of the Seven. However, it gave credence to my belief that if it has to be returned to the weave....One of the Seven are the best choice for doing so We stopped at the High Way Inn for a bite to eat, and to watch one of her companions in a match in the nearby arena - one Darrigaaz sadly he was outmatched, but it was a good competetion. After the fight ..who should show up but Samoth himself: then the real battle began but one of wits and words rather than spell and sword. He opened by calling me a coward for leaving..I parried with telling him that I don't have time for raving lunatics but if he could stay civil we might have a talk... Then he tried a feint with threats of danger to me, I evaded them them with some information on the protections on the key namely that if injured I cannot get to it. It is protected from me being forced to get it. Seeing a percieved opportunity, he lunged with threats against my family and loved ones of harm in order to force me to reveal or give up the key. I shattered his attack with the blyth reply that as I am an orphan, I have no true family and the only one I LOVE is Mystra. Scrambling to recover he tried to redirect the attack with warnings of Possible damage to those I know and to the people of this realm. I reposted with informing him that In the event the key were used there would be DEFINATE damage to all. With a final flurry he then tried to overpower me with threats that with me gone..no one could get the key, I sidesteeped and blocked with the information that with me gone no one would know who HAD the key, and the knowledge of where the key is and who has it is what would only be lost. Even this event I had planned for. Seeing he had met his match he finally acquiesced to a draw. And revealed his true intent..to also ensure that the key was not used, but was destroyed. Altho it is His intent...it is not necessarily the intent of the unnamed one he works for. At least he never said one way or the other. I grabbed at the opportunity - and got him to pledge to guard me...to ensure the safety of the key. Who would have believed..an alliance between one of Cyric and one of Mystra? Uneasy as it may be, and I feel that at the first opportunity he will try to wriggle out of it, yet we have one. Altho, as soon as the key is taken care of I fully expect him to try to kill me... More to come -- with the Grace of Mystra.

Aquisitions (III)

After a long journey down the blackened corridor, and the quick search of many old rooms and personal quarters along its length the StrifeLord of Intrigue reached a grand summoning chamber. Its vaulted ceiling depicted great victories and heroic stories of the rise of Cyric and its walls were carefully and artistically painted with murals, faded but still evident, of the conquests and exploits of faithful of the One and All. At the center of the room, a grand black throne stood, with the skeletal remains of some long forgotten Strife Wizard seated upon it. More notably, the hands of the figure clutched a dusty but undeniably powerful artifact. A black staff bearing no marking aside from the silver spiral circling its entire length. After recasting his detection spell, the figure slowly crept forward, toward the black throne, and the treasure its seated occupant, held. Seeing no danger, even after a long pause at the throne itself, the figure reached for the staff. As the StrifeLord grasped the Staff, the skeletal figure seemed to leap out of its reverie and begin to cast a spell. The StrifeLord reacted quicker and drew his silver capped rod from its belthoop and dashed it explodingly into the side of the creature's head. The antimagic of the rod broke through the creature's defences and crushed its skull instantly. The form crumpled to the floor in a pile of rags and bones. Replacing the rod and picking up a few pieces of the skull he remembered some words Raistlin had once uttered. Never be too dependant on magic my friend, for it can be the downfall of our kind. Smiling to himself on how his antimagic rod had pierced the creature's mantles, it was only too true. At this he looked at the object in his other hand with renewed interest. Welcome Setzer, the staff telepathically spoke. You are the new Magister. Finally, Setzer thought. We can truly begin what we so long have desired to do. S.

Aquisitions (I)

Lightning flashed and struck the earth with a resounding crack and a lone figure, clad in a dark cloak stood on the massive stone escarpment that was once an ancient clanhold of the Church of Cyric. Once known as the original Church of Strife, its towers pierced the skies with spear-like points and its battlements loomed over the surrounding country like a great and terrible shadow. Now, it was no more then a massive mound of rubble and recollections of a forgotten age. Its battlements reduced to piles of rock covered in moss and dirt, and its glories and treasures buried deep under the plateau that was now buffeted by chill winds and ceaseless rain. As the figure picked his way through the surface remains of walls, hallways, and rooms he began to recall several fond memories of his time as a member, then leader, lost, then found again devotee of Cyric. These memories had brought this silent and powerful Cyricist to this lost place. As the wind rushed through the cavernous openings of the plateau it caused shrill banshee-like cries to echo in the mountainous region. The traveller paused a moment, and listened, his fine pointed ears heeding the calls of the tormented souls still bound to the castle. His sharp icy blue eyes scanned the large room he was in. The old library of the keep now stood as a burnt husk, with its ceiling open to the elements. Rainwater cascaded down the walls giving the slick black stone an almost liquid appearance. It was not the water that caught the figure's attention, but the way that it seemed to collect in a shallow at one end of the room and swirl in a tiny whirlpool. Had it not been raining, he might not have noticed the hidden and cracked seal over the secret staircase. His thin pale lips curled into a smirk at Raistlin's ingenuity. Raistlin knew his friend had always loved the rain, and therefore would be most likely to understand its nature and its secrets. The form drew a few pinches of dust from within his the confines of his robes. Careful to keep it from the elements he invoked a spell of water destruction and watched passively as the water in the shallow faded into nothingness. He quickly moved to the seal and uttered another spell, this one of detection to discern any wards present. None of consequence being found, he uttered a third and final spell and was rewarded as the Dark Sun seal descended, into a spiral staircase which he quickly walked down. Not long after reaching the bottom, the figure watched the staircase elevate itself back into its dark seal at the center of the library. S. 

the awakening

The boy awoke, gasping for air. Looking around him, the room looked strange and different. He had slept for a long time. Years even. Perhaps this was the curse of all Celestials, for inactivity often brought a yawn to the child's face. Clamoring out of bed, Kyarn scanned out the window, and saw the Keep as it always was, empty and desolate yet at the same time bustling with activity. Only to the trained eye could one see the latter however. Shadows crept along the walls, and the distant sound of training priests and warriors could be heard well below his chamber, pleasing to the ears. Dressing quickly, throwing on his custom baby blue kimono and strapping on his swordbelt, he cast some protective magics and strolled slowly down towards the main hallway of the keep, allowing his childish muscles a chance to warm up. "So I'm finally back. There is much to be done around here, and I must speak to the other Strifelords. They will inform me on anything that has changed in the realms during my absence." Kyarn continued to walk, but slowed his steps as he entered the chamber. "Alia." Kyarn ran his fingers around the ring that adorned his left hand, and waved his hand in a circle before him. A scrying portal appeared, and peering intently into the image, Kyarn smiled softly as always. She was okay, and that was what mattered. He would inform her that he had returned to the land of the waking as soon as his duties were complete. For now, he would be kept busy for the days to come by resettling into the daily chores and tasks that were his responsibility as the smallest and most innocent Strifelord to complete. innocent. perhaps. but uncapable? Never. The time for the awakening slowly made it's way, the future becoming the present. All Hail Cyric. The Lord of Murder, the Prince of Lies, The Lord of Three Crowns.

Shattered Keep [Part.1-3]

As the fire elemental sat in the corner of his bare room, the flames flickering across his form made long ghostly shadows, dancing like demons upon the walls. His eyes never blinked as they were not real eyes, his form never moved, for it was not a real form. Minutes passed, and hours, and still it sat their unmoving. Simmer stirred as he felt a presence staring at him from the opposite corner of the room. In a slow seething voice, well worded but thick with annoyance, the elemental acknowledged the warrior. "What reason do you have to enter this chamber." The words echoed like knells of doom to the young warrior. Being blessed by the One saved his life that day, for he did not tremble with fear nor retort to the elemental, but rather stood still, his eyes small red glares beneath his full black helm. The purple cloak the warrior wore betrayed him with slight movement but the elemental did not mind. It made him curious, yet intrigued. So much potential. If only every warrior who gave praise to the God of Murder was so devout. Snapped come his contemplations, immediately he remembered that the warrior was still here. "Zantiath." What brings you to my room. Nodding to allow him to speak the warrior blurted out everything at once. "We're outnumbered! The heretics gather together by the gates of the Church of Celestia en masse and are beating back the warriors sent. I was sent to report to you, and ask you what to do." Simmer nodded and slowly got to his "feet". Walking out of the room without hesitation, Zantiath followed the elemental as he went to gather backup. Stopping by Vassago's and Haurelroot's rooms, he gave a quick knock and continued onward, knowing they would await him at the square. Entering the Dark Cathedral, he found Pftriscimius reading from a scroll. "Wizard, we have need of you. Your brothers are outnumbered at the gates of Celestia." The wizard's eyes darted from his scroll for a moment, a sarcastic sneer coming to his lips. "And pigs fly." Simmer growled. "This is serious Pftriscimius, it seems they have aid from the Dragon's Hoard, and some other of the clans scattered across the realms." Looking to Zantiath, he nodded and the young warrior spoke again. "Simmer speaks the truth, I saw it with my own two eyes! It seems the Tyrrans and Mystrans have also gated in to the Church of Celestia and the Dragon's Hoard as well! Against any two of them i'm sure we would have been able to handle the simple task, but their are now three churches and a powerful merchant band arrayed against us." Pftriscimius lowered his scroll and studied the young man's face for long seconds. "He speaks only the truth. Let me get my wands and scrolls, I will be ready within half a movement of the sun." Thus said, the group gathered at the Market Square of Westbridge and readied their weapons. Vassago and Pftrisicmius uttered arcane syllables and disappeared in a a cloud of purple smoke, opening a temporary gate for each of the warriors to step into. Haurelroot yawned and entered his gate lazily, while Simmer and Zantiath slid through steathily as was their typical entrance. Appearing before the entrance the two mercenaries of varying age and skill disappeared into the surroundings, scouting for hints and clues to where their kin may be lurking. Finding Jackal and Levistus, along with a small number of the remaining soldiers, they met back at the gate point. Vassago appeared suddenly, as it his wont to do, and smiled an evil leering grin. "The fools, Halo sleeps in their resting pool as if nothing goes on around him, while Zanis and the rest of them huddle behind the death traps and pin guards. There will be nothing protecting the priest from our onslaught." Haurelroot spun suddenly, sniffing the air and slammed his large nodachi down upon an innocent bush. Cleaving it in two, two dark forms jumped to the side, barely seen and barely noticable. All of Strife's champions knew them instantly thou, both from the champions knew them instantly thou, both from the customary garb of a Shadow Thief that they both wore, and from the weapons they clutched. The only question was why were they here. Pftriscimius readied his hands and let them dance into a beautiful weave, shimmering gold light forming between them. Nodding, The rest of the warriors surrounded the two and sneered. "You'd better have a good reason for being here, or your going to die right here." Jackal spat as he spoke. He was always ready to see the thieves die. Whysk brushed off his black tunic and removed his cowl, nodding to Vrulle to sheath his swords. "We're here to kill Celestians, just like you." Jackal gave a questioning look to Simmer, and Simmer shrugged. "Come along then. If you betray us, they will have to dig your burnt ashes and equipment out of my personal chest if they want anything to bury." Vrulle grinned and shrugged, slightly uneasy in this large group of Cyricists. He had faced worse odds. The group made it's way upon the gates that had been recently reinforced with a large group of Celestian guards. As the company approached they yelled for them to stay their ground and drop their weapons. Not even bothering to respond the group of the realms finest slammed into the guards, sounds of cutting swords biting through pure steel armor causing shrieks of pain to pierce the afternoon sky. Jackal and Haurelroot at the forefront with Whysk didn't even bother to parry the feeble responses, their swords cleaving soldiers often in two, the weapons slamming into the marble floor and cutting gashes into the virgin earth. Like a disease, they tore the guards and ground, the walls and gates to splinters. Blood flowed like springwater across the consecrated ground and caused the souls of those goodly heros that had been laid to rest beneath the church to cry out in unheard suffering. Making their way through the gates and scouring the halls, dispatching other pairs of guards, they found the place immaculately empty. Vassago and Pftriscimius, invisible as always, floating like ghosts through every crevice and crack, and past magical sentries and wards, finding both the pool and the hiding place of the remainder of the good forces. As they walked towards the healing pool, A darting figure made it's way with incredible stealth to the gates. No doubt it was a scout going for reinforcements. Vrulle and Zantiath were upon her long before she was aware, and as one their swords flashed into their hands as easy as if it were but a shrug, and tore great gashes into her back. Wendy screamed and stumbled towards the gates still, summoning a large cave bear to block the pursuing force. Meteors the size of barrels rained upon the bear, and in but the blink of an eye it was dead. Haurelroot and Whysk, large as oxen quickly stepped in her way, a heavy mailed fist punching her in the face stopped her in her tracks. Between the group of them, she was quick torn to shreds before anyone could notice, bits of her flesh were quickly eaten by the vermin that seemed to follow the Cyricists wherever they went. Continuing onward they approached the healing chambers, and there, all alone, sat the priest Halo. In a moment no more it was over, steel plated fingers sought vulnerable eyes and swords slit into his throat from both the left and right. A muted gurgle echoed through the now silent chamber, and the sound of his head could be heard, bubbling unused air as it floated on top of the sacred waters. Quickly snatching it up, as they had with Wendy's entrails, the wizards transferred them back to the keep for preserving, and for further enchantments that would form them into voodoo dolls. For the remainder of the time that the occupying force was within the church, no living creature dared stir or move, for the force made it's mark upon the walls and  marble, pissing and doing many other things that would desecrate the otherwise beautiful chambers. Defecating on the statue of Celestia, beating Cheiron nearly to death, the group was very pleased as they left for home. A pleasant day of work. All Hail the Lord of Three Crowns. The Prince of Lies The Lord of Murder Cyric.