When Hell is Overburdened, Chaos Shall have a Face.

[Fidelis Meridius]

Timestamp: 4th Cycle of The Month of Ioannes, Summer Era XIV Post Fractum

IC: Shadows stretched across the streets as tenacles of darkness claimed everything within its grasp; shrouding the city in night as the suns' retreated from the heavens. The capital slowly began to quiet as its patrons and citizens retired for the evening. But amongst all this rest, many were just beginning their business for the day. Amidst this cycle of things was a solitary man, cloaked in the hues of the darkness as he stood silently on a secluded balcony of the Crown Inn. His platinum locks of hair danced in the summer breeze as emerald orbs gazed at the starry heavens above.

Leaning on the railing, the Jorelite blinked, looking down at a glass of wine as he took another sip from the crimson liquid. His mind had become an interesting device after being released from his hate by the Dark Lord. No longer would the fierce emotion clutter his thought. In essence, he was a new man, but he would not find his soul rejuivenated with happiness or friendliness. Instead, the warrior was reforged with a steadfast dedication to his work, and a calm and dangerously calculated mind. Staring back to the sky as the Swordsman swallowed the last of his wine, he couldn't help but think of the possibilities before him. No longer did he fight so arrogantly... so blindly. By the power of Jorel, the true warrior had awoken, and the fate of an ancient and fallen empire would one day lay in his hands. The world would soon crumble before his might.

"I can feel the true warrior within... it is there, ready to awaken. No longer is it bound by the chains of hate. I will set it free as I bring this city to its knee's!" The mighty human smirked as he leaned back from the railing.

Turning from the balcony, the warrior ducked his head as he slipped into his suite. Procurring his various gear, the warrior suited up for a 'night on the town': Twin ardentium gladii about the waist, leather armor was placed over his button down, followed by his elven steel breast plate and bracers. Over that came the onyx cape that had become his identifying mark over the last few eras. Lasty on the way out, he grabbed the leather gloves that had helped him take life after life since their purchase.

Stepping into the empty streets, torch light danced off his form as the heels of his boots struck rythmically off the cobbled street. And now the darkening was his; his to discover his true self, his true destiny, and the unstoppable power within. Even the Dark Lord himself would not overburden Aeternia with the warrior's presence. Instead... He would see that chaos found its face!

OOC: This thread is a random adventure/PC developement thread, and it is open, but join at your own risk.

[Shei'yein Neydremi]

The chill wind blew.

The twin suns had receded into the horizons. All good men had returned home, settling the children and retiring to bed with their wives. The shops had been closed and barred; even the din of the various taverns in the city had begun to die down. The night had no qualms or misgivings about who ran it. Only the briefest candles flickered – the militia and city guard, patrolling the streets. They were pitifully outnumbered, surrounded by an ocean of darkness. All it takes to bathe a city in night, after all, is one moon; one eclipse to extinguish a million flames.

Once more, the chill wind blew.

Were that moon to take form and walk upon the firmament, it would be a form of white, bathed in silks and leathers of alabaster and white ivory. It would grip a sword of static in its left hand, and a glove of pulsing energy in its right. Perhaps wings of pure energy would trail behind it, an ethereal reminder of the sea of souls that followed in its wake. The sound of chains rang out into the night, a soft shuffle of link upon link. They were heard by anyone who listened, though only by the will of the bearer. If he were to wish the city to hear nothing, it would hear nothing; if he were to wish the city to sleep forever, it would never wake.

Master among Masters, First of Equals; the Philanthropist of the Dusk, Shei’yein Neydremi. His business took him through the city streets, an uncaring beacon of the purest justice – neutrality. He fought for no man and no god, only to restore the balance that had swung in the favor of Aetheria for far too long. In that quest, he had met many compatriots. Some were driven by madness, some by personal gain; others by some depraved evil, or inborn quest. The elf cared not, as long as they served his purpose, fought by his side.

He drew a cigarette out of a case in his jacket pocket, igniting it with a match. A drag, followed by a long exhalation of smoke into the Prime night. To others, he’d seem naught but a human of some thirty eras – perhaps of noble birth, taking to the streets for a sick demonstration of his fencing training upon live flesh. Certainly, he’d be draped in black leathers and fur, a mark of colour and nobility restricted in many cities around the empire. The illusions he wore were limitless; for him to show his face would be suicide – if not immediately, then in the future. Cities had been brought low to his feet; men and beasts alike had been slaughtered by the thousands; even the regent himself had bent his knee, surrounded by the raging winds of mystic chill. To spectators, it was never done by the same man. The elf knew better.

The world was small indeed. A familiar presence pulsed on the elf’s Awareness aura. The man that was approaching – he knew this man; he’d fought beside him, once. He was one of the few on Telath who’d seen his true face, and that alone entitled him to some degree of comradeship. The elf took another drag on his cigarette as he approached the man, flickering his illusion off for but the span of a moment, and only to the human. It was up to him whether he’d recognize the elf’s form.

“The pardon hath passed the prince’s hand and seal; and yet, not put into the prisoner’s hand, carried by the unyielding winds of fate and gods,” the elf quoted, a smirk on his face as he paused to take another drag off of his cigarette.

“You’ve found yourself to be a popular man since we parted ways at Dar Havark, Fidelis,” he said, an easy smile on his face, his cigarette resting between his fingers. Idly, he tapped the end, sending a soft shower of ash to the cobblestone ground as he walked.

[Fidelis Meridius]

The true warriors of Telath walked the lands with a different demeanor than the common man. The foot, when placed forward, did not fear wear the other would lead it. Nor did the man care of the fears life could possess every step of the way. No challenges, barriers, or blockades could stop the determination of a warrior. Such bearing shown through in the emeral eyes of the Jorelite as each step carried him further into the darkening.

Opposite of the light that moon provided the lands in the darkening, the Jorelite was garbed in the hues of darkness, For he was the darkness that gripped the lands. At one time, he was the scion of hate. No mortal that graced the empire was a conduit of such emotion as he was. It was a hate so intense that the fear brought citizens to there knees. He had publicly destroyed the lives of many, whether it was the Temple of Aslan, the Tournament of an Era ago, or most recently... the streets.

Once again the warrior had taken to the streets again, but this time he was a different man. He was cold, empty, expressionless as his onyx cape danced in a trail behind him; allowing strangers a glimpse of the masterfully crafted Ardentium Gladii or the various other armaments about him that permeated a an aura of fear... of danger.

As the Dark Knight continued through the streets, he could feel a certain "offness" about something. But he was not adept enough in the art of arcana to recongnize the illusion of one of Aelryia's greatest mages. Just as the two men crossed paths, Shei'yein revealed himself to his comrade from days past. An intriguing smirk flickered accross the Jorelite's countenance as he now had his back turned to the Undermage. Leaning on his back foot, Fidelis had yet to turn around as he was addressed.

"Then it would seem that the gods have forsaken such a man... But the prisoner lives..." Fidelis replied referring to the similarities between such a statement and his own life. Looking over his shoulder, the Wolf of Jorel turned his gait towards the mystic.

"I suppose I have, but such is the ways of the beast..." Fidelis acknowledged that his bounty was rather wide spread these days. "It has been a long time... Shei'yein." Fidelis stayed his questions for the time being. Surely the elf would divulge as much of his business with the master swordsman as he desired for felt necessary.