Blood Atonement [Private]

[Shei'yein Neydremi]

0330 Hours
Near the Outskirts of the City Vortex
Ioannes 15 in Era I of the Celestine Mandate
Era XIII Post Fractum

Summer bloomed in Carmelya’s palm, and with it, came the breath of beauty across the plains, uplifting the cool winds, springing forth the young seedlings, heating the rocky mountains. Even the dreary spirits that seemed to overhang the highlands were diminished by Her gentle caress. Yet, even as the faithful farmers and meticulous businessmen slept in their beds, tired from a brightening’s work, other actions had come into play. A pawn had been moved, a knight had been activated; pieces had protected one other and were now themselves threatened. Kalendryas spun his wheel, and summer was not the only thing that would come that season.

In the heart of man, evil had taken root, grown, and blossomed. The root of that evil was the yoke, the tool of control that men had unconsciously subjected themselves to, surrendered their free will. And so, they became enslaved, out of their own unwitting choice, to the doctrines of the Church. The State was weak, without power, the regency a worthless title, unable to affect the true world outside those ivory gates. And so, the Church had grown, becoming a behemoth that threatened to choke itself with its own bloated appetite.

Shei’yein stood afar from the city before him. A city of sin, Vortex. Perhaps no more than any other city – but from a divine flip of the coin, this one had been chosen. His machinations had already seen play – Zerdargia, Narim, and the aftermath had all played out exactly as he had expected. The Devout held a place in the minds of the people now, and all the evil it represented was spoken in hushed whispers. The malign intent of the Church was splintered, too, standing divided against itself. Like a house of cards, it would crumble from a fine tip of the balance. This city would be sacrificed for that purpose.

Gazing upon the city before him, the elf’s fingers, gloved in white calfskin, unfolding a pair of rose-shaded spectacles, donning them upon sharp elven features. It was the dark of night, and though only the moonlight shone upon him, casting dark shadows born of light upon the soil, he saw everything. Magic was his sight, and arcana his touch. Invisibly, his wings flared behind him, twisting into shapes unperceivable by the human eye, the human mind. They took forms – brief forms, only for moments – that defied physics, reason, and logic. And then they were gone, fading back into a mass of ethereal feathers.

“Vision without action is but a dream. Yet, the absence of vision itself – that is a nightmare, borne of despair, feeding on oppression, nourished by complacency, and ultimately, harvested by ignorance,” he whispered, focusing his energies as he began spinning a massive weave of energies. He began the process of casting, arcalyzing mana and manipulating vis, ara, and essence. He pulled the mana with metaphysical limbs, stretching it out into a fine mist, blowing it in a vast cover across the city, enveloping everyone and everything. The spell he’d cast would be but a simple one, but it would be fueled by the power of a master, and aided by the night, renderer of sweet oblivion. He wove in the shaping divination, letting the mist seep into the minds of every sentient being within the city like a warm, familiar friend, so readily trusted. And then, chaos would break lose.

“Kill yourselves,” he hissed, and flooded the connection he had made with a million horrifying images.

Locusts spilled out of hollowed skulls, picking at the decaying flesh of those unfortunate enough to survive; blood spilled forth from the wombs of mothers, congealing into knives that bled them to death with a thousand little cuts; maggots poured down from the heavens, feeding on children; men waded through seas of blood that rose until they drowned, their lungs full of the very fluid that let them live. None of these had happened, but did they need to? In the mind’s eye, they were real enough, and confronted with such insanity, men, women, and children would do anything they could to escape. Even commit suicide. Especially commit suicide.

“Escape this… kill yourselves…” he repeated into their dreams, over and over. The [i]Command[i] had been made. He cared not how they did it – choking on the leg of a stool, stabbing themselves through the ear, tearing out their own throats with the remnants of a broken glass – only that they did, every last mortal within the city, and immediately. They were not to blame for the sins of their fathers. But Kalendryas waited for no man, and punishment, too, was blind to the march of time.

[Kalinda]

Summer had returned to the necromantic city of Vortex once more. Of course it was not as warm as in Arakmat or elsewhere in the Empire – with the exception of Jaedaxia maybe – but it was warmer than it had been in months. Flowers bloomed everywhere, and sunlight fell on the black and grey buildings. Farmers came to the city, bringing much needed grain and meat from other parts of the province. Trappers returned from the woods with fur. Small markets had opened all over the city. The people were in a better mood than they had been in a long time. Even the orcish rebellion a few months prior or the constant threat from the so called followers of Aetheria did not seem to be such a big issue anymore. It was summer. What could possibly threaten them now?

While the normal citizens of Vortex, the humans, the halflings and the dorins, rejoiced, evil was at work. Those that had made Vortex infamous never took a break. In the undercity slaves were being sold. People dealt in illegal goods, and the Southern Quarter was still full of murderers. They were just less obvious now that there was no open conflict.

Even at night the city seemed alive. Vortex never slept. From afar Shei’yein could see a myriad of golden and silver lights. While the humans, halflings and dorins stayed at home, the city was filled with the lawless. The mist that Shei’yein had created covered the thieves that were standing in a dark corner or a house entrance, waiting for a victim, the prostitutes in their revealing clothes that were almost fighting each other for the next well dressed man that walked down the street, the drug dealers, the slavers, even the mothers and their little children in their houses.

Damnation did not come from the church, but from an entirely different source.

Screams echoed through the city as it rained blood, as millions of maggots swarmed the city. In a house on the outskirts of Vortex a woman killed her baby that was being eaten alive by maggots to end its suffering. A man stabbed himself as a thousand insects began to gnaw at his skin, and somewhere in the city center, in a luxurious marble villa a lady, a vain young woman that had more money than she could spend in a lifetime slit her wrists to stop the horror. Everything she touched had suddenly turned to blood. Many died, just moments after the mist arrived.

But elsewhere a soldier began to hack at the gigantic maggots that had suddenly appeared, that he thought were real, and in the Southern Quarter a halfling with big, hairy feet set his house on fire to make those things go away rather than giving in to the urge and killing himself. And in the Church of the Faith the priests ran into their prayer chamber as if Jorel himself was chasing them and praised Diana, as if that could make the blood and the pain go away.

They could still be heard many blocks away. “Diana save us! Have mercy on our souls, and rid this city of evil!”

[Dimitri Wladisyaw]

"Damn you all! Damn you all to the embrace of Jorel!" Dimitri strode through the streets, around him was death and destruction. "Aaaargh, get it off! get it off!" It was one of Dimitri's guards clawing at his face gouging his eyes from their sockets with his bare fingers as he tried to curb an imaginary horror. "Damn you, come on, we have to find what is doing this, damn you!" Dimitri growled and shouted as he waded through the corpses on the main street of the dark city. All around him they lay, their bodies twisted and broken. Dimitri cared little, a strong soul was all that was needed, they were weak and deserved death. His forefathers had built this city ripping the throats from orcs to drive them back into the mountains. Now they had become weak, he was the last glorious vestige of a forgotten world.

His trollhide armour was covered in fresh blood, some flecks were into his mouth and he feasted upon the metallic taste. This was battle and chaos and all he held dear, he wished it was not happening in his world, in his birthright, his Vortex but it was and he made the most of it. His eyepatch remained firm as he bent down a picked up the body of a child lying in the street, with a quick turn of the hand the neck was broken, and with another quick movement his sharp teeth had removed her laryinx. Sweet ichor of the gods, oh most pure vintage of biological renown, he tasted the blood on his tongue and it slowly oozed down his throat, a regenerative liqueur that protected him for now from his nightmares.

The maggots were upon him, in his mind they bored into his skull eating past the skin and flesh, the pain was immense, he dropped the body and fell to his knees clutching with grimy hands at his head. His mouth stained with blood cried out, "Damn you you fools! Damn you all!" Why had they not followed him? Surpassed him? Saved his city from this fate? All that was left was to trust in a higher source, gently he began to focus ignoring perhaps vainl the insects gnawing at him, and he began to project his thoughts upwards, "I ask little of you oh nameless Golgotha, corruptor of world and reaper of sin. I have spread your message and converted a house to you, Vortex is my city and I am about to see it destroyed. The people die slowly, they are weak but I am not ready for death. Deliver me from this foul magic and protect me from the coming storm, then later help me to repair this city with subjects living or dead, from this plane of infernal." Dimitri could barely manage any more, blood dripped from his mouth as he crawled along the street, barely managing to right himself in almost the middle of the city. Around him were only bodies, the living had abandoned this place, a thousand souls cried out to his mind. As he waited to see if he would be delivered or merely fall, another victim to a reputation perhaps deserved.

[Skylar D'ain]

As is often times said: many things in this world are fleeting; unfortunately for one particular fool lush, sobriety was among them.

Skylar D'ain sat nursing a noxious flask on the rim of the fountain, the very one into which he'd poured his 'last' drink only a short time ago, surrounded all about by the willows that littered the park. This last occasion lost its significance, for then he had told himself that his life was going to change, that he would rid himself once and for all of the hideous vice that slurred his speech and blurred his sight, and yet here he sat, well into the drink that caused him now to perspire and despair. Apparently it was not so easy to rid oneself of a dependency, you could not simply empty your flask and wash your hands of alcoholism. How naive he had been!

"No matter," he muttered incoherently, taking his largest draught thusfar, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. His eyes were bloodshot and red, welling with tears every so often. By the looks of things, he'd been at it a while. There was even the tell-tale stubble of a beard marring his exquisite features, introducing the very real possibility that this current bender had already lasted days. Indeed, this was true. Alternating between the local dive, and his own rented quarters, the Alyssan had been drinking for nearly a week straight, burning through what little means he had left. At this point, he'd more alcohol on him than he had currency, and he was in such a stupor that this didn't bother him in the least.

What did bother him, however, was the sole maggot he spied crawling across his trembling hand as he sipped his poison. Yanking it away from his mouth, the elf flicked the disgusting creature away with his opposite hand, before taking that much desired sip. Yet he spewed his elixir from his lips, for it was not the caustic taste that he'd come to love of late, but the copper taste of blood, invading his mouth in a morbid gush. D'ain poured the contents of his flask onto the marble of the fountain, only to find that it was in fact blood he was drinking. "Ugh!" he could be heard to exclaim, in disgust. And even as he stared at the clara pooled before him did more of the pesky insects appear suddenly, falling from the very sky, directly in his sightline. "What in hell...!" he stood quickly, frightened, and promptly fell on his ass, scrambling to his feet with much difficulty.

Both hands began to swipe frantically at his short-cropped hair, for in them had more maggots fallen. Indeed they poured forth from what fetid clouds he knew not in such numbers that he began to feel nauseous. Even as he wretched, however, did the ex-soldier become aware of the faint screams of a mob, coming from the heart of the city. It was a natural response, to retreat such a cursed area for a more industrial location, where there was unlikely to be such bothers. Yet as he stumbled his way through the park, nigh falling a number of times, the elf grew more cognizant of the disaster that had the city in violent upheaval.

There were citizens, of all races, ages and creed, running about, some of them bloodied, others flagellating themselves. One man was even chewing on a bottle of ale, swallowing awful shards to his thirsty death. "NO!" the lush shouted, reaching for the man frantically, yet he soon kneeled before the corpse, prying from his hand the bottle, whose contents had been spilled, and whose remnants were stained with the blood he'd already drank of. "What a waste," D'ain muttered, standing in the bloodsoaked streets. "Oh, well." Removing another flask from his pocket, the unhinged fool finished it in one desperate, lasting gulp, throwing the container hard at the ground when he'd had his fill. He beheld, stoically, the chaos around him, swaying from side to side, flirting with collapse, and chasing the visions swirling about his head.

[Shei'yein Neydremi]

The seeds of chaos had been sown. Embedded in the fertile soil of the mind, they festered, yet, the elf knew they hungered for more. More power, and a new form. The innocents died in droves – by the dozens, by the hundreds – and for a fleeting moment, the elf felt a tinge of regret and an echo of the past. Then, as quickly as it had come, it passed, replaced with cold-hearted resolve, a dull sheen in the bottomless wells of one elf’s eyes – eyes that had seen far too much. There was nothing left now; the die had been cast, and though he’d be condemned to eternal damnation, he would redeem the peoples of Alleria, save their souls. To do that, some… or many, would perish.

"Action is the slavery of the free," the elf whispered to the winds as a chill passed through his spine. His words whipped across the plains, lost forever within moments in the carefree twists of the elements. He looked out upon the city; heard the din of agony and panic, saw the flicker of burning homes. Yet, it was not enough. The horrors, too, would pass. Reaching out with his mind, he began reconditioning the spell, remolding the horrors that faced each man, altering the subtle divination of command. No longer would the Command spell demand suicide. It had evolved, it hungered for more. Now, it shrieked for the blood of others – for each affected citizen to pick up arms, to slay his neighbor, fellow-citizen, brother, without heed to rhyme or reason. And then, to repeat that damnable act, time, and time again, until their own life seeped from the cobblestones below.

And yet, it was time for his own plan to proceed. The cold winds blew, bringing the smell of carrion and flesh along with them. The city needed not to fall; no, destruction of a sizable portion of the population would be enough to satisfy the governor’s request, and more importantly, cause enough chaos to mask the elf’s true goal – the destabilization of the region and the removal of Church influence from the area. Plunging into clara, he began to work at breakneck speeds, augmented by the casting abilities of his wings. He crafted dozens upon dozens of initiate-level illusions, for they were simple, and for one of his power level, unlimited in scope and count. Upon each, he placed a warding, hiding their mystical nature from those proficient in the arcane arts or able to sense them. And as they took form, he spirited them to the gates, to the town – ordered them to run amok, and fade into the shadows stealthily if any tried to pursue them - whatever the action, it was imperative for none to discover they were illusions. The illusions had taken elven form, you see, nimble elves in black leather, each unique, different, and as real as the heart and mind could render. They were special forces, evidently, clad in the garb of assassins and bearing knives and daggers, potions and poisons. And most importantly, they bore the fine and pointed ears of those who were all too proud to call themselves Silrosians. Yes, the Silrosian elves darted around the city in little bands by the dozens. They needed not be responsible for anything – the citizens would draw their own conclusions after the tragedy, and demand justice.

The elf smiled, working his magic once more. Asymmetrical warfare was based upon the art of speed, stealth, and surprise. The longer he dwelled, the greater the chance of his opponents regaining their composure and rallying a defense. Perhaps even finding him. Reaching into the metaphysical plane once more, the elf cast a simple spell that he’d used in the past, feeding his body into the astral plane with etherealize, and darting through the walls into the city itself. Riding the astral, he’d teleport within the city, into a side street, out of sight and out of mind. His wings unfurled behind him, each of the six arcane spirits within shrieking as they activated, lending the elf strength – enchantments, powerful in their weaves and mystical in their origin. Instantly, he surged with energy; Pale Nirvana lent him supernatural strength, speed, and perception, making him aware of magic in his surroundings; Pale Revival masked his presence from others, making him both invisible to eye, mind, and every other sense – his arcane abilities, and the presence of spells, too, would disappear, nullifying the ability to detect magic.

Cloaked, walking through the streets where he’d visited unseen horrors upon the populace, the elf expanded his awareness, searching through the entire city for those which he could use for his cause. He needed masters – his ascension depended on it. He had grown his power over the decades; sometimes learning it from others, sometimes seizing it. Yet, before him stood a great abyss, for without nine masters, he would never ascend to the highest path, regardless of how many he slew, or how great his will became. And so, his mind searched through the city, looking for those of great power – power that would soon become his own.

[Halb]

Burning hate.

The hatred was what woke Halb up from his dream of ever nightmares. The frustration that this nightmare had to fall upon this city at this hour, while he was so forced to inhabit it. That was the kind of frustration that quickly boiled to anger.

Burning hate.

His mammoth form rose, dwarving the puny human trees in the Vortex Park. He was drenched in blood, with maggots crawling across every orifice of his body. To Halb, this was nothing new, how many mornings had he awoke in the middle of a bloody battlefield, with the dead still clinging to him like dew?

Too many, too many by far.

He saw an elf flitter by out of the corner of his eye, but paid it no heed, there were too many suspicous things by far that already lived in this place, this whole city crawled with the puny and the weak and the lazy.

"Skylar." The brute barely managed to say, blood dripping from his gaping maw. His wounds that very elf had inflicted upon him had now healed, and he found himself itching for combat.

It was only then when that infusion of hate the likes he had never known before came into him, and he roared wordlessly. His blood-addled mind saw him and Skylar as the only two sentient creatures in the whole city.

He would destroy the rest, Halb never lost. Halb never surrender. Halb fight or die.

He grabbed one of the smaller trees that had been planted, no higher then four feet tall and thin as a man, bending his great strength he pulled it out with a grunt. It was not a suitable weapon for a warrior such as him, but it would suffice.

It would have to.

He looked for the nearest creature, be they human, elf, or orc. The only thing he wouldn't charge was Skylar himself, whom the giant considered an ally, even in his blood-haze.

That creature, probably an innocent soul fleeing the chaos, would be his first victim, he lept towards him with his solid legs and raised his little tree to smash it against the frail things body.

The night was so young and so much blood needed to be spilled.

[Amber Brightwing]

Amber woke up with as a jolt of pain shot through one of her wings. Her sleep had become restless and rolling over on her back had been all that was needed to become fully awake again. Or was she? There were bugs everywhere, almost as big as she was, and a voice in her head was telling her they would turn on her any moment and she’d better make things short and painless if she wanted to prevent being eaten alive.

She might have listed, but didn’t. The thoughts and views were all looking quite real, except for the abundance of Psionic Essence present. Mysticism… If someone wanted to kill the Thane with such a low way of attacking they would need to come up with something better. Things like these were exactly why she disliked the sphere. It was a bit of a double standard perhaps, as she would just as easily use it to her advantage when she could and would readily hide, sneak up and stab anyone in the back if it happened to further her purposes. But when it came to hiding arcana it just was different somehow.

She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the mystical spawns. If she could reach Clara she might be able to dispel this foolish attack and see if there were any traces left of the assassin. He’d better not let her get her hands on him.

If she hadn’t been distracted by the spell itself and paid a bit more attention she might have noticed the problem was bigger then what she made of it. A lot bigger.

[Kalinda]

Shei

The horror didn’t stop …

The halfling that had previously set his own home on fire watched his neighbours run out of their homes, a human family with three small children. He felt anger the like of which he – the peaceful halfling that had never wanted more than a bit of money and a smoke every now and then – had never known before. They disgusted him. As his gaze fell on their scared faces, as he heard their screams of panic, he felt the hatred rise. “Come, I’ll help you. I’ll take care of your children.” His voice was sugary sweet. He produced a knife, then another one and slit their throats. They had to die. It was either them or him. He knew that know with the utmost clarity. They were responsible.

The priests in their church who thought themselves safe from the chaos outside looked up as somebody opened the door. Their high priest stood there, a tall half elven man with hair as black as the night itself, dressed in his best robe. They screamed as he unleashed a couple of spells – and then they screamed no more. Satisfied with his deed, the high priest of Diana walked to the window and looked outside. Chaos had erupted everywhere. Mothers were killing their children, children their mothers, the grandmother took a heavy vase and brought it down on her little granddaughter’s head. Children, often no more than half a dozen patterns were murdering each other.

Only a few noticed the “elves” at first. The chaos was too great. But finally a few realized that they were there and drew their conclusions from it. Revenge. It was revenge for the attack on Silrosia, ten times as worse as the war there had been.

As Shei walked through the city and expanded his awareness, he could feel them. They were out there, without a doubt witnessing the massacre or maybe even taking part, at least four in the undercity, four above ground and one that seemed to be even stronger, an Archmage …

Dimitri

Around the captain of the guards, the son of one of the few men who really deserved the title “Lord”, the people were dying, committing suicide by the dozen. Some were slitting their wrists, others stabbing themselves or hanging themselves, while others took poison or drowned themselves. It was worse than anything Vortex had ever seen before.

There was the urge to take part in the insanity inside of him as well, that impossible urge to take a knife and slit his throat, his wrists, to gouge his own eyes out or bite his tongue and drown in his own blood, to simply stop breathing and throw himself into Jalat’s cold embrace.

And then something changed. Where people had been focused on themselves thus far, they suddenly began to notice those around him. Their eyes wide with madness they started attacking those next to them, like rabid animals, barely conscious, driven by inhuman needs … the children, their parents, the old ones, his own guards …

A woman was walking through the streets, pale-white skin, like the snow, her black cloak trailing behind her, her face covered with blood. She would bend down occasionally and embrace those that were trying to kill themselves and each other, give them something akin to a kiss … and then they’d suffer no more, but lie still in a puddle of their own blood …

Skylar

The maggots suddenly stopped falling, and the massacre took an entirely different turn.

The park had been spared the worst so far. While the Southern Quarter and the city center, the places were most of the people lived, literally drowned in chaos, few were here at any time. For the first couple of seconds or even minutes things were relatively quiet or would have been if it weren’t for the screams that could be heard from afar.

But in time people started to pour into the park, to appear between the trees, and they brought the madness with him.

A man had procured a rope from only the gods knew where and hung himself on the tallest tree in sight.A homeless man broke the bottle of bad alcohol he was carrying and swalled the shards. Another one was hacking his leg off.

An old woman in clothes so old and dirty that they could be smiled from a mile took a knife from one of those that had fallen and tried to stab Skylar with it while a small boy, no more than seven or eight patterns of age, beat her relentlessly with a stick, his eyes gleaming with the fire of madness …

Halb

Had this been any other brightening, a normal brightening, those humans and elves that inhabitated the city of Vortex would have fled at the mere sight of a giant as angry and blood-thirsty as Halb. But this was not a normal brightening. Fear, self protection and survival instinct took a backstance as the madness took hold. Ration and common sense were meaningless now. Nothing was as it had been before anymore. The only thing that was important now was to hurt, to inflict pain to lessen that impossible urge, to extinguish the inner fire.

A half orc, a tall, muscular creature was running from the madmen, right towards the giant. One hit was all it took, one hit to kill him, to take his life … there was blood … a lot of it …

The mob that he had been running from had followed him. They had almost reached Halb when they suddenly stopped and started attacking each other …

... but from the opposite direction a group of dorins was advancing ...

Amber

With some effort Amber managed to reach Clara. She could feel the traces of mystical energy somewhere out there, but it was impossible to dispel them. Whoever had attacked her was far stronger than she – and far, far away. There was nobody hiding in her room. There was no trace of the assassin, nothing but that urge to hurt herself – or commit a murder, that thirst for blood.

After a while she could hear sounds coming from outside her room. Somebody was screaming. Then there was a loud sound as if something was hitting the floor, and then somebody started banging on her door. Screams reached her ears, screams of pain. “Help! In the name of the gods help! They’ve gone crazy. Murder!” It was the voice of one of her guards. He seemed more desperate than he had ever been before. And then the tone of his voice changed, became angry. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed on top of his lungs. “I’ll kill you all!”

[Shei'yein Neydremi]

There was great power arrayed before him. That much was obvious as he glared through the metaphysical, piercing the mist of secrecy that veiled the citizens of the dark city. So much weighed on this one battle, and yet, so little had managed to be rallied – thus far. Yet, he knew that if the advantage of surprise were to be robbed from his breast, the game that was to be played this brightening would swap sides once more. For this was the city from which many great heroes and villains hailed, and his sweep had revealed much of the power – some of it; at least one paragon, a figure of power greater even than the elf himself.

He moved quickly through the city streets, his body quickened to supernatural levels by the enchantments that had been activated by the dusk of Nirvana. Nothing had moved to strike against him – yet – and whether it was through their ignorance of his activities or their acceptance of them, the situation remained the same. He would execute his plan as planned. With the spells he’d cast previously reigning havoc over the city, he moved under the thrice-fold veils of chaos, arcana, and darkness.

His brow furrowed as he concentrated, focusing the aura of awareness around any one of the masters above ground; the undercity was unfamiliar ground, that which he was loathe to enter; and as for the archmage that the spell had found – even Shei’yein had his limits. He honed the spell like a radar as he raced towards whichever one would prove most isolated from the others, or skilled in thaumaturgy or sorcery, were it possible. And regardless of where it lay, or what mundane figures surrounded it, he would head hence. The unpowered mattered little to him, occupying nothing but a span of time in his mind’s eye. They would be swept away, and he would take what would be rightfully his – the dominance of a master-class ability through permanent mind rewriting, and the first step towards his true ascension.

[Amber Brightwing]

After a few mental tugs on the fabric of the spell she gave up even trying and let herself drop out of Clara again. Controlling the urge to stab herself repeatedly and holding Clara combined was too much of an effort when there was nothing she could do with it. The brief venture in Clara had not been in vain though as it had shown her what her simple abilities had overlooked at first. This wasn’t some half ass attempt at killing her, it was an all out attack on the city.

It was a depressing thought. Depressing enough to just take measures in her own hands and make an end to her suffering… No wait, the banging on her door took her away from that line of thought for just a moment, enough to realize it was only the spell talking. She could do something. She could stop it. It was only a master spell and that meant masters could dispel it. Vortex had masters, an archmage even.

It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. The guard at the door was ignored and instead she took her regular exit, the window, and flew in a straight line towards the White Night’s Drink. Murder was on her mind and this time she didn’t even bother to keep it back that much, instead it was redirected. Whoever was behind it would better make sure that she didn’t get her way with him. She’d show that wimpy Mystic just how painful death could be made.

[Dimitri Wladisyaw]

Dimitri growled as he placed a thumb over each of his eyes and began to press, this way he would kill himself and stop the maggots from writhing into his eyes! But lo a moment later the urge left him and he moved his hands downwards and blinked, about him lay corpses, his own body was covered in blood and his soldiers, his loyal supports lay about him all around. "The Elves," Dimitri growled, "It must be them, revenge festers in their bosom." He felt rage burning inside him but something more as well, an uncontrollable passion to lash out.

That he did setting upon anything and anyone about him with his bladed gauntlets, he would feast upon them after killing them, the woman he saw would be the final victim, Dimitri hated her arrogance and charged her meaning to smash his shoulder into her and break her like that, he charged as fast as he possibly could.

[Kalinda]

OOC: I’ve decided to post now. Halb, you can jump back into the thread anytime, I just didn’t want to give the other PCs any more delays!

Shei

There were no thaumaturgists of note in this city of evil and darkness. One would have thought that the Archprelatess had sent her best to cleanse this place, but the opposite was true. The Church of the Faith was fighting for survival each and every day. The strongest of then, the High Priest, was but an adept … an adept that was dancing on the corpses of his brothers in the faith and causing destruction wherever he went, a thaumaturgist that was as dark as the darkest of the vysstichi …

The spell pointed towards the city center where one luxurious villa followed the next. It pointed towards an ancient building, with walls that were covered with vines, a building made of shimmering white marble that was almost as old as the city itself. He was there, a sorcerer, a master, the only master of his sphere that resided there.

Corpses were lying on the street. One of the members of the City Council who lived in the house next to the mysterious villa had hung himself … his corpse, clad in an expensive suit, was hanging from a tree for all to see. Screams could be heard from everywhere. The chaos was perfect. The gentlemen that were ruling the city were acting like bloodthirsty barbarians, killing each other without regrets, without second thoughts. This was Vortex’ darkest hour.

Amber

Murder and death were everywhere. As Amber flew through her window and to the White Night’s Drink she could notice the destruction that had been caused by the unknown mystic. Vortex looked like it was in the middle of a war. There were people screaming, trying to kill themselves or each other everywhere. Whatever Vortex had achieved in the patterns since the siege had been destroyed within a couple of seconds. This was utter madness. It was a nightmare come true, a nightmare nobody would ever awake from. It was hell on earth.

There were elves moving through the masses of madmen, Syl’rosyan Elves, looking strangely out of place in Vortex …

Corpses were lying in front of the White Night’s Drink, dracons and humans that had been enjoying a drink just moments before, city guards, citizens that had had the bad luck of being nearby when disaster had struck. The door of the tavern was open. There had not been enough time to secure the building. The spell had affected almost everybody, no matter who they were or what they had been doing. A couple of low level Toherrans were gathered inside, fighting. Another Toherran, an Esh’lahier, of higher level than the rest, was trying to make them stop and finally bound them with necromantic spells.

Rogaku, the bartender, was in front of the door. There was something strange, something violent in his eyes. He was holding a knife in his hand, and there was a corpse in front of him suggesting that he or one of the other Toherrans had been under the influence of the spell a short while ago, but he seemed to be relatively in control of himself now.

Dimitri

Left and right of Dimitri people died. There were very few that were strong enough to resist him. There were very few that were still sane enough to think about their actions, to think clearly, to do more than commit random acts of violence. They almost seemed to be on drugs. All of Vortex was on drugs, and the only way to recover from this madness would be death. A couple of candlemarks from now the city would be filled with a nauseating smell, but for now there was nothing but the metallic, tantalizing scent of fresh blood, that rich aroma that seemed to encourage death and destruction.

The woman barely moved, barely did anything as Dimitri charged her. Whatever force he used, it didn’t seem to be strong enough to hurt her, not strong enough for her to lose her balance. Deep red eyes looked at him disapprovingly. From here he could see that her skin was as pale as that of the corpses that littered the streets. She seemed to radiate a certain cold. Blood was everywhere on her dress, bright crimson against midnight black.

He felt her reach out towards him, a calm, compelling touch amidst all that chaos, a strange temptation, almost impossible to resist. She opened her mouth, and there were teeth, sharper than a normal woman should possess. “I could kill you”, she whispered, and her voice was as sweet as honey. “Maybe I should. It seems fitting, considering the madness that has befallen Vortex. Maybe I will ... Do you want me to end your miserable existence on this plane? Do you want to serve a higher purpose? Do you want to serve a higher being?”

She laughed, and it was as if all the angels were singing.

[Dimitri Wladisyaw]

"I want to be greater than I am." He opened his mouth gently as all about him seemed to slow down and become nothing, "This city is imploding as we speak, I...I want to go to my Collegium and work on my experiments, have my servants." He looked about himself gently, blood rolled from his gauntlets and he heard the voices of angels carried in the air, "I want to serve a higher being, immortality but not death is what I seek."

"See the bodies newly dead,
see that gently, rolling head,
see the beast that struts and creep,
see the folorn mothers weep."

Dimitri giggled gently as he spoke, his mind often reduced into a strange mess when he was angry, when so many had fallen at his hand that night, "Make me somethin