[Dreams]Timepieces and Conundrums(Ulric)

[Antar]

Unknown time,
Unknown place,

In the darkness somewhere amidst the waking and the dead, or was it the dead and those who walk dead to the world? A man dreamt. Dreamt of things that could not be seen or put into the words that might truly describe their nature.

In the background of his dreams a swarm of visions came, set against the pendulum swing of a ticking clock and a running river. A woman's face appeared for a moment, a costumed troubradour making a gentle sonnet of words and poetry amongst a stage covered with gossammer draperies of silk and down. He couldn't make her out, as soon as her presence came the echoing of dulcimer tones remained. Echoing words from some long lost poem or age he had heard somewhere sometime in his life. Or was it in his life? Perhaps it was nothing more then the fleeting menagerie of one's imagination twisting the threads of the subconscious, weaving them together to form the appearance of words. The versimilitude of outspoken thoughts pressed against one's realization or momentary reckoning.

"Behold the gentle pomegranate, it's flavor a poignantly poplar of pleasant taste which pervades the senses with its sumptious delicacy of sweet wine. However, in this night's vile verminous vagrant's villianous ventures it serves the special sallacious soliloqy of masking the murderous mayhem of magnificently manipulated deaths of dire fools who came to the party of the natty and naughty mistres of the night's nauseating endeavors culminating and concentrating within the noblesse personage of the Countess, Belize. What do I speak of? Murder of course. It was poison."

He didn't know. All he knew was that he was a man. A man listening to the dulcimer tones as they faded from his reckoning. Escaping his grasp as if he were trying to catch the blazing streams of the sun's light and vanishing into the ephermeral haze of delusions and illusions that plagued the tumultous proceedings of a mind playing tricks upon itself , and he struggled thrashing soundlessly like a drunken dreamer aching for the comfort of something normal, something whole, not these poor purical images which he couldn't make heads or tails of. Images which plagued him evermore.

A moment's touch, and then another followed, images rising from the mist unlike anything he ever dreamed. This time a forest was in the distance, a woman holding a child amidst the wilds, a brand of some sort engraving itself mysteriously upon its brow as a wolf pack came to care for it. Taking the child as their own to nurse its needs like they would their own cubs.

"Do not despair for what is life without trouble, or turmoil. Strength without hardship? Is there any true words that can bely the truth of what really is a worthwhile life?"

God he hated the questions, and wished back for his old dreams, the dreams of horror, of the blood on his hands. The acrid smell of waste from sentient creatures when they died. He tried to cry out , his words telling the voices to stop, wishing for anyway to wake. But was he awake, or was he truly sleeping for the first time? He didn't know. He couldn't know, he had no clue.

But a twisting peculiar sense of Antar's innards rearranging themselves made him guess something else was occuring and a slight inkling of disorientation blurred this unearthly vision as he felt himself plummet downwards like a falling rock. A stone plummeting from the sky down towards a blackened isle of rock with a tall tower at his base, but there was something wrong, it was like in the center of the island a giant mouth was opening wide with a salivating tongue stretching upwards to swallow him whole. Behind this mirage the rivers seemed to churn and twist, and he found himself drifting away as they surged forwards , engulfing him in the cold of the darkest watery depths as small creatures of mutative fish and shark swarmed around a green skinned creature who was fighting them off with a triden as below him a sea of coral was cracked and broken. Where was he? He didn't know, nor time nor when, such descriptors were meaningless to his horror as he a wind funnel rose within the waters, turning from a whirlpool into a hurricane which swept him screaming upwards into the sky.

A wrathful stormcloud with the largest cheeks and furrowed brow that only a yon ill wind could form was there. Punctuating its words with the rolling thunder and lightning within its belly.

"And what horrors can any mortal truly endure? Are you foolish to consider that your life is but the merest pleasant sensation in the universe, a means for a speck of dust to think itself significant? That your life is as good as any others?"

He tried to speak that all life was significant, but still his words failed him. Couldn't be heard, couldn't be conveyed. He was a just a speck of dust on the wind. But yes he tried to rant, and tried to rave, he lived by a code of neccesity. He respected the lives he took, even if he enjoyed the challenge. Whatever his words were, the stormcloud puffed its cheeks and blue a fierce wind as cold as ice around him and the dreamer found himself blown at its mercy across the land to whichever path that it wished him to go. Over a great continent, still sutured together and whole, he flew. He noticed some features, and recognized where his mind might of taken them from, the ice palace of Avanthal for instance.

The dreamer respected that one, she had partaken of what necessity had required of he- in mid thought of the dream the dreamer felt a sense of horror as the lands below cracked and crumbled as great plumes of ashen smoke seamed to spew forth from chasms across the land and spewing of smoke and ash. A world's funeral pyre. For a moment the land blurred, and the dreamer thought he saw the world as he knew of it, but no matter it was the least of his concerns. The dreamer was falling, falling and eventually he could only hear the momentary smacking of his body against the ground, as his flesh and bones were instally pummelled into dust, his blood not even leaving a smear upon the earth. Not even a small impression or dent to mark the dreamer's passage.

For a while, there was nothing, no sight, no sound, no taste, nor touch, nothing of any kind but the all pervading blackness that engulfed him in it's smothering embrace. But soon that changed as well as the shadows seemed to lighten and swirl about him. Shadows with eyes gesturing him closer towards a view. There he was... at the river again, with the pendulum swinging and the waters churning and bubbling in their wake.

For a moment a new misty image began to rise, and like a lost child he reached out to touch the framework. Without knowing how or where or why, the white hazy image became larger and all encompassing, as in his mind he heard a whisper pervading the silence and the darkness.

"This... is Ulric..."

[Ulric]

There was naught but ashes. That was the sum of his desultory existence. The throne flanked by heaps of rubble, and ashes sifting through the debris strewn over the stone floors; rusty metal, shards of pottery, charred bone. The dark marble, once veined with gold and silver, was cracked and barely visible through the murk. A spear leaned against a chunk of tumbled colonnade, a skeletal wrist poking from the clenched gauntlet, which was rimed over with frost. The braziers were long dead. Their cinders now stained the flakes of snow that swirled through the gaping balcony, borne upon the bleak, skirling winds. The crags beyond were obscured by a pale shroud. The ledge was slowly crumbling, leaving a gaping hole where the balusters had once stood. Now shadows writhed among the heaps of snow, their murmurs disturbing the quiet. What is that but an echo of past glory? The bells do not peal for us, my darlings. Their bronze is too raw to be forged anew. The anvil is gone. Who has taken it? And where is the smith? Alas, he has no arms, but for the one of ephemeral jade. Go on, yank the bellows, send up the plumes of flame. There is naught but ashes. Ulric, Ur-Xhyvas, heir of the dead god, shivered beneath his mantle of furs. The throne was icy against his back. Try as he might, he couldn’t force the bitter ache of cold from his bones. His beard was white and stiff with frost, his arms lying heavily on the supports of his throne. There were no retainers to attend him save for statues. They stood along the sides of the large, domed chamber, broken and crumbling faces turned to the dais, as if waiting for his orders. The coals do not ignite. The embers are dim. I’m so cold, so very cold. The fools whisper behind our backs, they scheme in the shadows and plot our demise, but we won’t let them have us. No, the edge of a knife must put flight to their misery. But where it the wine? Why does it not come when we have shouted? The mead, the fowl roasting over the fire, hot loaves slathered with butter and honey – why does it not come? Why do the servants not heed our demands? There is naught but ashes in the hearth. There are no merry grins, no prancing japes and jugglers, no murmur of a tune save for the whistling winds. So cold. There were also wraiths. Pale and vaguely translucent, they floated across the rubble, dragging insubstantial chains behind. There were forty-seven of them, their features angular and grave, as if hewn from rock. They had each perished at his hands. They were his hushed legion, and he the hub of a vast, chaotic wheel, dragging fragments of their tormented souls wherever he went. Every night, he watched the shambling walk of these undead sentries as they went about their dismal vigil, wreathed by a horde of shadows, while guilt scourged at his soul. “Why do they persist?” he rasped, yet no sooner had he spoken than his frozen lips cracked apart, sending trickles of warm blood down his bearded chin, where they froze crimson and red. There was no hope. The realm was dead. The master was dead. The throne did not want him. He was no more than a usurper, a meager sack of flesh and bone, seeking to be something that he was not. He sought to vent his despair, but the words were lost upon the wind. He couldn’t help but consider how desperately futile his task was. There was a tapestry behind the dais; once vibrant, it was faded to the color of bleached bones. The border were reduced to ragged shreds. There were holes burnt on the main field, obscuring the scene. He envisaged it as a feast of weary hunters, but who could say? There was naught but ashes. Where is the dawn? Why does it not come? Alas, the world is wreathed in shadows, and the hopes of salvation are waning. There was never any hope. The scales of fate are deaf to our pleas. The broken ones are crying. They hurt our ears, yet here we hide from them. The water in our bath is foul and reeking. The bed is so cold. The sheets wind around our neck, heavy tendrils of cloth that seek to choke the breath from our lungs. The forge is waiting, the smith is arrived, but there is naught but ashes. There is naught but ashes. There is naught but ashes. Then there was a loud noise, resounding through the empty dome like a clap of thunder. His dark eyes swept over the chamber. The wraiths scattered as if in terror, gazing out from the shadows with their dead, milky orbs. He shifted on the throne, tearing an elbow from the frost that bound it to the cold, hard marble and rested a hand on the ancient, rusty greatsword that lay across his lap. “Who dares disturb my temple?” He spoke gravely.

[Antar]

Falling, ensconced in threads of light and bright clouds, Noth fell hard into the decrepit and dismal demesne which was unknown to him. Not falling downwards as gravity usually should, but rather across as the vortex which launched into this dark abode catapulted him like a chewed up piece of dinner spat out of a giant's mouth. His arms pin-wheeled, the hapless dreamer careened forward without any control. Antar barely had time to brace his arms, pulling them close to protect his head as he crashed into, and through an old potted plant. The ancient clay structure, weakened with the pull of ancient times shattered upon the impact and the ancient potting soil it had once held ballooned up into the air as he came to roll upon the other side. The thin veil of fine fragments coated his form in the thinnest shroud of dust covering his hair, paling his features as if he had worked a day in the chalk mines as his body began to roll upon the stones. Through the miasma of the portal behind him, a voice whispered, drowning out the beating of his heart. A parody of his own thoughts reflected back at him in a cruel voice which seemed to ooze derision upon him with his own tones and mannerisms of speech.

Was this a dream? What was a dream, was it an unending cycle of one’s fears? Was it the manifestations of one’s guilt? The harbinger of one’s innermost whims and desires they feared to take hold of them? Their lust , their greed, their passion? Or was it instead a fractal measure of one’s hope for good things in their lives which would never pan out to bear fruit? And what was the fruit of one’s life but the summary of the present of where such action’s had brought one to? Good people doing supposed good deeds were supposed to bear fruit which would sustain them, but the truth of many noble actions and activities was that such benefits were the product of the chastened, and the oppressed, the power-hungry or the mad, those who were pawns and those who considered themselves truly free? What good was a dream, what good was the end result? No one knew before the end result came, no one could tell the future with an undying certainty of what would happen. Dreams, nay reality itself was as if a feather being cast upon the wind; lost in its embrace. No matter how powerful one was there would always be something greater, capable of destroying all their works in an instant of rage, or a fit of pique…

Whatever The breath was knocked from his lungs with the impact and all Antar could do was lay there for a few moments before regaining the strength to rise to his elbows to look about. He coughed, expelling the soils presence of the dust from his lungs as he tried to blink the dust and the ash from his eyes long enough to glance about the area he was in. The first thing he noticed was that it was large, cavernous even, with the remnants of some form of archaic hall. Nearby, about three feet above his head a hoary table, made of weakened oak marked by the passage of time… it’s antediluvian planks sagging under the weight of a feast’s spread, long since frozen over and turned to dust.

Dust, the dust is merely an illusion. Soon many things shall be dust, no mortal or immortal is above becoming dust. It is the reason and the rationale that one might reason that dust is one of the finest things in life. A symbol of the times after...

The second thing he noticed was the chill of the air, the pockets of glacial temperature shrouded the statuary in frost. It was if this place was some form of mausoleum forgotten by time. In fact, the entire place was rather creepy. Antar exhaled slowly, before forcing himself upwards. This was an odd place, not anywhere he’d been to before, and he was wondering just where the hell he was. This place couldn’t be real? Could it? He couldn’t tell, even the air here seemed stale, as if there was a dearth of life present in this strange edifice that seemed to speak of times past.

Finally, upon his feet, Noth coughed out the last of the debris from his mouth and spat into the relic of the ancient pot. Looking down at himself, he realized he was wearing the armor and clothes he had once used as protection. But they were different from the normal faire, and included a bone-like pauldron on his left shoulder with a pair of spikes forming the haute guard. At his back were his usual weapons strapped into their harness, and his quiver cinched at his side. His instincts caused him to lay one hand upon the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it from its scabbard.

Looking about, he soon spotted the presence of a few shades, scattering to the four winds… if there had been any movement of air here, and he gazed about cautiously. Ghosts were bad news, very bad news in his book. Antar had heard stories of places haunted by legions of the lost. Ghosts,how he disliked them, they were the souls of those which had departed from the realm and the norms of Life’s cycle of death and rebirth. Cursed individuals forced to stay upon Mizahar with unfinished business. Many of such beings would almost be certain to bode ill will towards anyone who trespassed upon their resting place. It was not the first time Antar wondered if he had gone daft, but he knew that here and now, there was an underlying hint of danger in this neglectful place.

Soon enough, his instincts were answered as an ancient raspy voice , cracked with the wear of time uttered, “Who dares disturb my temple?” The voice was as cold and as desolate as the surroundings, but something seemed odd about it. As if it was speaking from far away. Turning in the direction of the source his eyes espied a large throne with a figure sitting upon it, staring at him. He couldn’t be sure of what it was, it form laden with armor, yet seeming withered at its lips. Even worse the icy frost from the statuary seemed to thicken at the monarchal chair's base, creeping up to shackle the figure, confine and restrain it.

Was it a demon, a villain from beyond the realms? Such things might be held in a temple could they not? What was the truth of all this? Was this a dream? What was the meaning to him being here? Was he awake, transported to some other place at the mercy of another? Antar couldn’t say. But thinking that if this was a dream, despite the things he felt were real, the chill of the air, the impact of the stone, then the only other conclusion was that if he was dreaming, then the creature was formed from the fuels of his nightmares; No… that could not be true. His nightmares were a memory of the torture, and the training. Of those that shaped his life and tried to pervert his freedom and will to their own ends.

Looking at the figure and the greatsword upon his lap, Noth forced himself to lower his hand away from his weapon and speak as he would to anyone he had met, wait no, not as if he was speaking to anyone he usually met. This place was strange, a place that reeked of death, and yet carried to subtle aura of power long gone. For once, he spoke the truth as he was able. Politely, and with respect as he tried to figure out where he was. ”My name, dear Sir. Is Antar. Though to protect myself I commonly use the name of Anthony. I suppose I am a traveler of sorts,” He glanced wondering at the dearthly vigil, the entrapments, and the sense of desolation in this place. It seemed oppressive, like a tomb long forgotten. His brow creased as he turned back to look upon the sitting figure. “though how, the means, or why I came here, I don’t know. Why are you sitting here alone? Locked within an icy coven? Is this a dream? Or perhaps a nightmare? Furthermore, if this is a dream, or not a dream, is it yours or mine? Or perhaps more importantly I should fathom to ask: Who are you, good sir?"

As Antar waited for the figure to respond, the rogue coughed once more and began to brush the dust off of him, removing the soils of yester-years past. Literally (and figuratively) speaking of course. It was as if Antar was shedding the grains of dust, to show that at least he bore the appearance of life within this decrepit set of surroundings.

[Ulric]

Turgid eyes roamed the dreary chamber. The ashen-gray dust shifted wretchedly, swirling over floor and table, rubble and dismal ruin. There was a hush. The wraiths began to fade. Then a cruel gust howled through the room, tearing the banner from a rusty pike. The faded rag lashed past the intruder, a man armored in spikes and leather, mailed hand resting on the handle of a sword. The figure on the throne shifted. Through the murk he saw pale skin and eyes, hair whiter than the drifts of snow. Ur-Xhyvas laughed. Throat rattling with the cacophony, chest shaking and heaving to draw breath. The sound echoed off the crumbling ramparts, dancing with the skirling winds. The wraiths began to murmur. There was a rustle of wings, and then a ragged crow sank its leather claws into his elbow, beak tapping at his heavy, frost-encrusted mantle. Caw! Caw, caw, caw! The cry was taken up by others, black heads poking from perches high in the cracked marble arches, a strange sheen in their beady eyes. There were gray feathers strewn among the cinders. They did not feed any longer, for absent the flesh of men, they had become as corpses. The figure on the throne eyed them warily, then raised a cruel iron fist, bade them halt. A final, mocking caw echoed the gesture. “Dream, nightmare… what’s the difference? They are both in vain.” He let the sword tumble from his hands, ringing harshly on the cracking flagstones, mouth curling in a bitter sneer. “Just as you, a creature of flesh and bones, must inevitably return to the mud from which you were spawned. There is no escaping your fate, you see. There is no escaping my fate, yet gladly would I swap it for a memory of the rising dawn, for the warmth of soft fingers upon my cheek.” Ur-Xhyvas rose slowly, icy bonds cracking as he pushed himself from the throne, shambled to the edge of the dais. You do not belong here.” Why do they come? They do not care, they do not know what once was, what could ever be. There is the breaking of crusty bread, the sharing of salt and foamy ale, a few coppers for a bushel of turnips. The dark lanes reek of dung. Torches cast acrid shadows. The rafters are burned away, axes sing. The stones are crumbling, quarries ring. Ships careened badly. Dank seaweed, whorls of barnacles, worms leeching the timbers. There are jongleurs and fools enough. The songs are askew, the boasts empty, the laughter forced. There could be so much more. There can always be more. Why did they forget? Ur-Xhyvas took a halting step from the dais, nudging aside scraps of bone, and leaned heavily on a cold brazier. Head slumping, he sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He slowly thrust a gauntlet into the foul ashes, dug to the very dregs, then let them sift through his fingers, spreading through the gloom. “But you stand before me now, wanderer. Though you do not belong, you are here. Do you know what that means? That you are a lonely pilgrim in a ruined temple, ringed by wraiths and fragments of a sundered mind, consumed by your pride, spite, your lust for power. Here is what I think of that,” he snarled, shoving at the brazier. There was a grating of metal, a crunch of frost, and then the ornate device was tumbling down the steps. The clangor was horrid, sparks flying as it bounced, throwing up a swirling haze of ash before it finally jolted to a halt upon the statue of a gasvik. The onyx sun rises, the crimson too, but for us there is no dawn. They do not come, and we are not enough. The others do not know how near we are to the end. The horns of war are to be sounded. The chargers thundering over the plains, swords scraping from their sheaths, banners flapping, the maul of dark, fiery chaos scourging away the revenants that remain. “There is naught left but ashes.” Ur-Xhyvas gave another, mirthless bark of laughter. “Ha, but where are my manners? Pray come in, draw up a seat, warm yourself by the fire. Help yourself to the suckling pig, chuckle at my lively jape, bend a comely maiden over the table and take her up the arse for all I care. Take a look around, feast on that for a while, for this is what remains when gods die.”

[Antar]

"No wonder this place seems to need a little housecleaning." Noth blurted out as he looked around the ancient temple, casting a sharp glance towards the decrepit stature of once prominently austere surroundings. Murming silently to himself, the rogue began to walk towards the downed brazier the armored figure had bowled over. Slowly he crouched down over it and looked closely at it's rusted edifice. "And if this is no dream or nightmare, then I've been flummoxed into somehow being summoned into a realm that might be a place between dreams and reality, mind and matter. Or at least something scraped free and repurposed to something useful."

Drawing his kukri he made to scratch upon the metal, the very touch of the knife on the outer edge creating a ringing sound that filled the stillness of the air as he worked to flake off a bit of the rust to reveal a core of hardened metal beneath. The simple act, the smallest change resonated like a banshee's cry all the way to top of the temple's hallowed recesses, causing the crows perched there to caw in agitation, as they looked down upon the figures below with suspicion, instinctively assessing them like the carrion birds they were. After all, they had waited a long time to feast upon the armored form's innards, did they not? Noth mused that only the protective shell of ice, and armor had kept the man's flesh from being stripped.

Pondering aloud, he muttered, as if the figure's display of anger was something he did not care to notice. A byproduct of self loathing, and a weakness he would not tolerate, but neither would comment upon. "If such a place could be so, I think you are greatly underestimating the usefulness of what remains here. What isn't useless, should be simply tossed out and destroyed. The very act of its destruction giving rise to something new and better then simply lying remnants of the past. Especially in a place that has not seen merriness, nor light in seeming centuries. But... maybe , perhaps, I think I've found a way to change that for you."

Bending his will he tried to summon his djed, bringing a small blue flame into being, before turning his hand to bear upon the brazier's stand's metal. Burning off the ornamentation, the flaking rust until the metal beneath shown through: vibrant and restored to its purpose even as it lacked the luster and gilted ornamentation, the excess now sloughed off and running to the ground, or charred to an ashen dust. The process it seemed to choral horrible jumbled tones of music that were a cacophany to the ears, making him cringe with pain as he pressed on until not a scrap of rust was upon the brazier stands perch. With the butt of his knife, he flicked it again, and for once, a single clear tone, low in hearing echoed in a blissful counterpart to the painful experience he had had just moments before.

The flapping scattered tapestry lying to the side caught his eye as he considered a new use for it, and then his ears heard the caucuas of the birds above. The creatures seemed wasted away, but with their bellies still full of the scraps that had succored their hunger amidst this dreary place. And fat... was useful.

Setting this stand up again, the rogue drew his bow and knocked an arrow to aim high above at the cawing birds. They were growing restles, fidgety, but sighting on one, allowed him to manage to bring it's corpse to the ground. The white haired man would skin it, seeming oblivious for the moment to the armored man's presence as he worked, plucking the fathers, and more importantly, gathering the tallow up in a small bowl-like pot shard he picked off the ground. The fat was viscous, but it would support a wick to burn, it was all just a matter of what to use.

But he already knew what to use, even as the crows and ravens above grew louder in their cries, as a few larger ones, their skulls seeming to be of white pecked at the others to begin stirring them into a frenzy.

He did not have much time.

Striding towards the fallen tapestry and gathered it in one hand, ripping a strip off of it for the tallow, and placing it in the viscous substance to form a wick, before he lit it with the cold blue fire born of his own reimancy.

When he lit the candle, the carcasse, and feathers of the animal it came from burst into flames as well, spreading a cleansing wash of fire over the cold stone, cleaning a twenty by twenty foot space of the excess grime and gore gained from the accumulation of the element's wear.

Above the birds cries grew louder, a few dived down towards the armored figure, their claws skittering off his helmet before they turned their eyes to Noth. But they stayed amidst the shadows , away from the candles light where the mortal man stood..

A rogueish creature who was illuminated with a single burning source of eldritch light, in what had to be the cleanest space the temple had seen in centuries. "Perhaps it would be best for you to come down here, to stand with me Ser. They seem to be scared of the light. I hope, just perhaps, you are not and that you might tell me your name."

Whatever the figure would do, the appearance of one of the guardians of the temple , a member of the ghostly horde would be tackled by a wave of raven wings and feathers as its form slowly began to change. The ghostly arms seemed to grow hide, or scales as it became more apparent to the eye. Merging into the physical realm as it transformed into something darker, some form of monster that seemed animated by the crows who had wanted to peck at the armored one's flesh for so long. An abomination of some kind, which reached into its own chest to draw forth a sword of blood... swinging it menacingly towards them both.

Seeing the danger, the rogue readied his own weapon, and called out to the armored man. "Unfortunately, whatever that thing is; It doesn't seem to have liked any changes here, and wishes to interrupt our conversation... quite a disreputable and unmannered sort don't you think?"

[Ulric]

Ur-Xhyvas gave a cruel laugh. “Dreams, reality, what’s the difference? Nysel does not embrace us.” Shambling around the edges of chamber, narrowing his dark, turgid eyes as he regarded the petty mortal, he absently tugged at the heavy drape of his fur cloak. There was the scrape of a knife, the creak of straining timbers, a sifting of dust and cinders. The gusts of snow enveloped him, and he kicked at a broken column, rubble grating beneath his plated boot.

There is no end to them. There is never any end. The ravens quork, the crows flap madly, but the feast is ever delayed. The tears of sorrow are not shed, those pale, gleaming pearls, for there is nobody to hear the lament, nobody left to drink from the bitter cup. There is only me, a lord of corpses and cinder. The last god, the only god that comprehends their crushing burden. They do not want saving, though. They do not want us, not ever. They do not want me, and for that, they will surely perish under fiery skies. Not mine, though. Not ever mine, for lurking power is no power, just an impotent conceit, a mocking wraith. There is just me, and this place, and him.

Ur-Xhyvas glanced up, eyes clouding, his mind raving, and saw the tendrils of destruction snaking around the chamber, the brazier shining upright at the base of his dais, the burning char of tapestry, the stark circle of speckled, lustrous marble etched into the heaps of rubble and snow. He saw the frenzy of crows, vaguely regarded the dark, nebulous monster that formed from the crazy beat of their wings, shaping like a man, trenchantly lashing with a crimson blade.

The words were wrong, though.

They were ever wrong.

“So?” Ur-Xhyvas didn’t even blink, laying the crushing burden of his apathy over a single word, bending it over a solitary phrase. “Do you think it matters?” Xhyvas had left him this temple, concealed it under a cloak of forever, with but a few words to lead his steps. But the fact remained, he was not Xhyvas. He had divinity coursing through his veins, but he could also forge his own fate, scrawl his destiny on the pale, curling parchment of Lhex’s unrelenting ledger.

Don’t think to deny my grief, you, he growled, a gauntlet twitching, beads of frost falling from his beard, tinkling softly on the ground. Xhyvas left me remnants, but that doesn’t mean I have to piece them together.

Why not? Why bide here, when I can reign over the world, mount a throne under the topaz sky? There is nothing for us, nothing that we would not do, would not say to restore what is rightly ours. There are but echoes, raving bleak and badly, the wisping of vapor from the crack of chafed lips, the ring of a forge. That was not my purpose, though. The embers are dying, the charlatans and sycophants speak their deceit through forked tongues, usurpers poising bunches of grapes over their fat, wet mouths, farmers labor in their field, the first to suffer and the last to prosper. There is a cup in the flames, but they never drink, never seek a red destiny, just endure.

Fools.

Ur-Xhyvas knelt, jaw clenching, the cast of his face ruthless as he peered at the strewing of debris, the fragments of graying bones and the rusty chinks of metal. Then he drew back, fingers clenching into a fist, and smote the ground with all of his might. There was a crack, a tremor that shook the entire chamber as his gauntlet sent up a cloud of dust, a deadly shrapnel of rock shards. Though he swiftly brought back his fist, the fissure was already gaping, a vicious, sawing rift in the buckling marble. “Do you waver?” he snarled, staring at the man as he smashed his fist down again. “Do you doubt?” The ring of his gauntlet was thunderous, the cleft cracking deeper, longer, wider; branching out into feral skeins. The columns shuddered, nearly bending under the strain of the creaking roof, threatening to crush them under an entire peak. There was a rumbling, a crash as uneven slabs began to detach from the towering arches, smashing angrily on the ground, forcing up choking clouds, sending numbing, bone-shuddering shocks through his limbs. “Do you linger, and fight, or do you flee?” Ur-Xhyvas sneered, kept up his assault, watching keenly for any signs of dread.

[Antar]

'Jeez... why did gods always have to talk about several things all the time.' It was more annoying then anything else. Sure there was the whole idea that the barrier of what was different between mortal and immortal lives, and what mortal could really fathom the ire or consternation of a god being dead. After all, not many mortals knew or remembered what it was like to actually be dead if they had any past lives.

At least not anything definite they'd remember unless they wanted to be laughed out of existence. But hey, if some dead god wanted to sit around pounding the stones of their temple while some giant blood beast born from raven's supping on his corpse over the years, or eons than that was their business. I mean, who was he as any mortal to deny them their right to destroy something? Right?

As he was concerned, Gods could be just as petching stupid as the rest of the people as far. "Alright, I respect any being who can crack the firmament with their fists, but don't you think you're overdoing it a little when there's a present threat?"

At the mention of the said present threat, the sword of blood arced in his direction and forced him to dodge back. The breadth of its swing swept into the clouds of dust being brought up by the splitting rock. It was interested because where the blood settled the grains of shimmering stone turned to silver and gold flecks and began to be absorbed into the bloody creature. The creature seemed to grow with each little bit the sword ate, becoming larger and larger and soon it's height equalled the armored one's. Still the armored man caused chaos and destruction and soon the bloodbeast was growing beyond the armored one's height.

Taking his bow he set off at a run towards the dais, literally passing by the raging god of sorts and hopped over one of the fissures. Along the way he fired off three arrows, the last one passing over the raging gods head to sink deep into the nest of blood and wings. The glowing creature slighty decreased its size when it was wounded. For a moment, it seemed to be injured, but soon its size and girth crushed the arrows as it began to grow again.

Whatever the armored figure was doing was profiting it, and allowing it to grow to a point, as if it was absorbing the energy of the surroundings. "Alright bucko! God or not, I'm going to give you a bit of advice and you're damn well going to take it! Look at what your doing! You're making that thing stronger you stupid vagik. Do you want it to kill you to even if you're already dead!?"

The creature took a swipe towards where Antar was passing on the dais and the rogue skid to a halt to push off in another direction. Where the blood sword smote, the stones of the temple vanished... literally as if they had been voided from existence. But at the gouges destruction the bloodbeast glowed a little more and became brighter.

The blood beast turned towards the armored figure and raised the blade."Don't let it petching touch you! It's taking whatever it can feast on here as its own!"

As the sword descended towards the armored figures form, Antar snapped off another shot, this time directly at the blade. The arrow's impact forced the blow aside , carving a large groove at the armored man's feet as a high pitched keen sounded aloud the temple. For a moment, the monster's growth waivered, but soon enough it began to expand again...

[Ulric]

“Stronger?” Ur-Xhyvas gave a harsh laugh, keening over the crash of boulders, the creaking of sundered rocks. And then, as though summoned from the deep, a stony spear erupted from the rift, piercing the monster at the juncture between its legs. “Do you think it matters?” The cruel splinters of basalt sank into dark, whorling flesh, a cloud of foul, smoking ichor spurting as if from a fount as the spear bore the chaos of rending limbs upwards to crash against a plunging column. There was a clap like the thunders, a detonation that sent up a cloud of dust, a deadly shrapnel of rock fragments. The monster just kept writhing, dragging behind a lankly hanging leg, fangs bared.

Ur-Xhyvas cast a sidelong glance at the thing, his face twisted with contempt, and then reached down, tore a piece of rusty metal from his chest and hurled it away with a clang.

Then the ground bucked, the rift widening, and then standing stones just crumbled away, leaving them to sink down into an abyss. The murk closed over their faces, enveloping their splaying fingers, their armor. There was a faint, red gleam, a tracery of molten rock, obscured by choking clouds of cinders, the vast furnace making his whiskers and the frost-crusted debris weep bitter tears. Then a crag of shelf surged up to meet them, a cruel hand that debased itself over a puddle of ruddy red, bubbling as though ready to burst, a rumbling shimmer in the depths. The crunch was enough to send up a spray of crushed, slivered bones, to make flesh slough away in yawning hunks, yet the descent was not over. The crag was uneven, acridly smoking, the rank danger of a maw jutting from where it clung tenaciously to the enormity of the chute. And thus, they arrived at the labyrinth of sadly broken souls, the flesh pits of an age long forlorn, when spears of flint were but a memory, and the age of bronze had yet to usher in the bands of cruel iron. The rocks were strewn with bones, lost ribs and charred jaws, a chaotic jumble of faded scraps of cloth and crumbling scrolls from which tongues of flame licked at their feet, ashes swirling, a clangor of chains. The chamber was stagnant, enveloping the mind with a thousand whispers. The fading embers betrayed a gleam of bone poking through the embrace of basalt, a dull, enormous spine that clove through the depths, as though they were the vertebrae of a serpent, a worm fed on the corpse flesh and dread of a horde of tribes, enveloping the ramparts of shackle keeps under a crushing languor.

Ur-Xhyvas rose, twisting at the skeletal remnants of a leg, the side of his face hanging wetly, reduced to a mockery of tendons, a scouring ridge of bones. “You see,” he rasped from the purple scar of his mouth, “The vagaries of our existence may not extend forever, but the paths stretch before us can’t be charted. The left side of his cranium had been smashed to a pulp, the armor around his body dented and ripped away, fusing with the flesh, shards of bone, flaps of pink flesh protruding, gray cords of gut roping, sending up a dreadful reek. “And in the end, we always perish. But not now. Not here, in our descent into these catacombs, for we but dream.”

Father, if you wish to partake of the tepid waters, then let it be so. If you wish to drift upon the seas of riotous fortune, let it be so. I stand sentinel over chaos, death, and decay, but they are wrought of subtle fibers, the skeins of a transcendent prophecy, vainly eschewing the scatter of knuckles. If I told you what I know, could you ever embrace that? If the harbingers ever find their way, having lashed a slew of lathered mounts to a frenzy, would you turn them away? There is naught but ashes, in the end. But the end varies. There are many forks. There are so many choices, the eventual decision forged in the crucible of sorrows, turgidly shackled by doubt, broken by the beak of a raven. The purposes are crossed. The stars hold few portents, and the decrepit bindings of our tomes flakes away before the eyes.

Play on, you foul pipers. Drum on, you drummers. Howl dogs, howl. The dreamers must keep on dreaming. The herdsmen chase the awakening of a crimson dawn, breaking fragments of pottery under sandaled foot. The graybeard pours water over his back, rubs it into his sparse, spiky hair, held captive by milky serpents of fog. The gray trunks sway, leaking a redolent sap from carved notch, the ochre spray of leaves rustle in a vague wind, slowly dwindling away.

Ur-Xhyvas gave a shrug. “You, the figure that appears before me, and even the flesh of my hand, are but simulacra caught by Nysel.”

[Antar]

"I'm not simulacra you armored corpse in ice! If this is a dream then its either my dream or two dreamers sharing the strange oddity of a man who fancies themself the ice ridden corpse of a god." Antar muttered loud enough for the dreaming Ulric to hear him as he fired off another arrow at the strange beast of blood. As the temple fell about them it descended upon wings to the starving palm of molten earth which stretched to grasp and hold them both in its plateua.

If he had time to consider things; the stamping crush of annoyed feet, the blaring blows of an angry god sounded more like a verbose man's wailing blows seem more like a despairing child lashing out at something it could not come to grasp with. It was a disheartening scene; one which belied sorrow or rather a petulant child smacking at the confines of its powers without knowing its true strength.

Pitiful how human it all was.

A man or being locked within their own depression; torn to tary amidsts a nightmarish hell with little change, and far more little strands of hope. Striding over as the blood beast was taken apart as ulric banged himself to pieces upon the temple floor, crushing his skull and blaring his indignities upon the world as armor and flesh become twisted together. It was strange now, for instead of the armored 'god' being taller then him before, it was now of similar height.

As if looking at a sack of fleshen bones bleeding out its misery. "Though if such is truly the case you are a poor misbegotten creature indeed. Much like anyone else... including me. Save at least I realize that when you're broken it is a gift to have someone there to help you back up to put you back together."

He reached down, to lay his gauntletted hands upon the armored flesh, and lava coated his armored fists as he began to tear. To rend the metal of the armor away, to hold back the cursed disjointed plates of the leaking skull , to rip and tear the flesh until to his eyes there was naught but the tortured edifice of a simple man; the way ulric was in life. His face, his form for the first time to be seen by Antar. Complete, but not whole. He would look into Ulric's eyes speaking the words laced of a kindness that was both cruel and cutting as any knife's blade. "Well... Uhr Xhyvas if you are but another dreamer: Know My Name is Antar and I think you worthy of my assistance shouldst we ever meet. This place holds many questions for me... like why do you think yourself armored in the corpse of a dead god instead of standing upon your own feet. Or is it that you merely need someone to help you stand? "

With those words Antar would pull Ulric to his feet. "If your sword arm was tired and your armor broken, who would help you?"At those words the rogue would take off his own helm to place it upon Ulric's head, it would twist and transform : like the laurels ancient soldiers might give to their commanders; or generals. A weapon would follow after and in Ulric's hand the hilt of a simple soldier's sword ; a battlescarred gladius which Noth carried; would twist and writhe like a snake as it took an ember gleam hardening to a large claymore in hand before the rogue would spin him around to face the blood bourned creature.

"If this is your dream only you could triumph against something of your own mind's creation. If you fail to see it as a foe then perhaps you are already conceding it; a creature of your subconcious fastening already has youbeaten! Forget the future, think of the present and now. If you cannot see your way past would you not seek a friend to watch your back? If you are a dreamer, defunct of their abilities, weighed down by their own potential futures, then for this moment borrow my own and my strength feeble as it is."

At those words, Antar's form would shift like a ghost, sliding over the newly made man Ulric, as if possessing him yet crystallizing into a new form of armored protection. One clean of the old one's taint as the man would face the greatest enemy of all: A portion of himself made manifest as a bloody raven flying amidst the portcullis of lava formed rock and stone. A new man, clad in borrowed armor... and yet filled with the vaguest sensation of familiarity, as if an old friend had come to greet him. Antar's voice ringing in Ulric's mind. For the first time, recognizing him as the man, and not the godling he crowed himself to be, yet still accepting of it all.
"Strike true; and prove you worthy of my pitiful strength and trust. Your foe lies as a creation of your mind; I shall be your armor this day... perhaps then, and only then can this dream be severed to ensure our return from Nysel's embrace."

oocOnce I started writing this took a whole completely different direction then I had intended >.< I realized antar has to take a backseat to Ulric here; acting only as a shade. I think I'll do a few posts of his 'shade' joining the others inside ulric ; having them try to rip him apart as ulric faces the blood monster. Maybe antar can see glimpses of Ulric's past and Ulric can see glimpses of antar? Idk we'll have to play it by ear "

[Ulric]

Ur-Xhyvas stared at the blade in his palms, recognizing the heavy, blackened steel with a tense clutching of his fingers. Though he yearned to fight, to rend them all to fragments, he just couldn’t. That wasn’t the way. “You speak brashly,” he growled, “and perhaps with wisdom, but you don’t see. That creature isn’t my enemy. The wings forged of rage, beating with despair. There was more to life than the shedding of blood, the breaking of skulls, at least before the gods enacted the highest of their treachery.” The claymore clanged on the rocks, went astray. Then, a whisper scoured through the intruder’s ears. Xhyvas fought for something else.

Slowly, his face grew harder. The crushed bones repaired, flesh converging. He faced the monster of dark, acridly smoking blood, with its dreadful sword, thinking only of how desperately enraged it must be, hungering for vengeance. He felt only pity. He began to walk, arms stretched out at his sides. The thing drew back, fearful, hesitant of his advance, and then it gave a snarl. The edge of its sword lashed through the air, and then it lunged forward, buried it in his gut. Ur-Xhyvas jerked back, his jaw clenching, and then he firmly caught the offending wrist, inexorably forcing himself along the trenchant length. He locked eyes, darker than coals. “You are forgiven,” he grunted, and wrapped his arms around those slabs of fiery shoulder, laying his cheek on the curve of its neck as he ensnared sordidly raging fury with his covenant of redemption. There was a shriek of protest, the wrenching of sinewy muscles. The talons raking over his back, but he wouldn’t let go. The shrieks didn’t halt, for slowly the thing of blood began to fade away. “This dreadful hatred is me, just as truly as my face, my hair. The dark brother, they called me. There’s so much I could’ve been, yet my path has always strayed. The rage boils up, desperately crying out against what is wrong, but there is always another way. Though I was bred for slaughter, I’ve come to find that there is always prophecy in the embers, a reason to let judgment slough away.”

“Xhyvas showed me the way.” Ur-Xhyvas trudged forward, his gaping wound closing as the thing’s last remnant just dissolved, leaving a shining portal. “That was his legacy, and now you’ll see why they had to murder him.” His flesh slid through the vaguely chaotic whorls, crowned by spikes, to emerge in the depths of a field. The soil was freshly plowed, tiny sprigs of green jutting up from the dark, rich clumps. There were smears of grazing sheep, orchards rising thickly over a verdant ridge. From below, the enormity of an aqueduct raced toward the lanes of a distant town, ringed by high, vast ramparts, the domiciles flanked by granite and marble, roofed by slate. The harbor was guarded by a sea wall, tiny ships moored by the quay, their sails furled and bales, barrels, and crates sprawling on the rocks.

There was serenity.

Ur-Xhyvas gave a shrug. “Xhyvas’ realm was transcendence, and he only wished to give us a choice. He’d always know what course to chart for a vessel, just how hot your forge needed to be to temper metal. He’d know what could’ve been, and what was. He desired to make us better. He didn’t care for discord, for our willful, disobedient squabbles, nor those of the gods.”

“The power he offered, it wasn’t just a dream. That’s why they killed him. They needed discord for their games, feared that’s we’d rise up, rip away their lofty conceit. That’s why I defy them.” Then he frowned, the quiet lingering heavy over the tapestry of dreams. “Though I’m not, as you aptly imply, anything like a god, I don’t bear the burden of years. They’ll surely have me dead, for that’s what I’d do for them. They bring only suffering. They won’t let us decide our own destiny, and for that, they’ll have to face a reckoning.”