Old September 10, 2010, 12:17 PM   #1 (permalink)

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[Event] Burn, baby, burn! Disco Inferno!

Timestamp: Urm...it got burnt to ashes by the firey orb

What a bloody mess this was turning out to be. Surely Roscarnis would want a report on what was going on with this mess, so out of prudence he placed Ameriggo on the case! Serion would probably never trust the man enough to invite him into his fold, particularly since he was requested to be left there specifically by Roscarnis himself.

With that little matter taken care of, the Chief Inquisitor no longer needing to worry about learning whats going on with his best man digging up the deatails, Myst D'Lucian found himself leaning over one the rooftops of the city as he watched the firey spectacles going on below him.

Rumor spread, as quickly as the flames, that the source of this was some strange elemental orb...sentient perhaps. It was really no concern to Serion beyond the fact that he might get charged with dispatching it, but he already knew that there was plenty of mercenary talent on the little island to handle one little elemental orb.

No, Serion was here to handle the more mortal side of things as his silver masked visage looks for the followers of this elemental menace. Bodies were needed for more experimental thaumaturgic studies and these would do just fine.

His black clothing absorbing the light from the fires as opposed to reflecting it, his silver mask would more than likely appear as a floating point of fire above the rooftops as his gaze moves about for some unassuming cultist to strike out at. The master swordsman had ensured a ship was secured a good distance from the port that he could signal to approach when he was ready to have the corpses shipped back to Castle D'Rinishad.

Locating a good target, he would make his way to the ground quickly and let his ardentium blades have a bit of fun.
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Old September 17, 2010, 01:40 AM   #2 (permalink)
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From such a vantage point, it was a scene of pure aesthetics to the like of Myst D'Lucian, and much that he could appreciate. Yet the Elfin sensibility, as was possessed by Serion D'Rinishad, was very different to that of Myst's. Perched on one of the taller structures near the top of the caldera, the Vysstichi was observing one of the grandest sights he had ever witnessed.

All over, Secyclion burned.

Thick, noxious fumes had sprung from buildings, docks and markets, the lack of town planning suffering the islanders as the closely-knitted buildings, especially along the Toichios Kikkimos district made the containment of the flames much more tedious and an impossible task. People were forming lines to transport water from the beach and harbor to the fires but the effort was futile, and the fires were too big and great. Even the Nephele Bay was like a mirror this Darkening, reflecting the wavering towers of flames that hissed and spat and hazed.

The air was dangerously hot, and filled with ash that fell like black snow. All over was a startling glow of red and yellow fires destroying all in its path, consuming all like a ravenous beast that would not stop until all had been eradicated.

Gliding soundlessly above the cackle of the flames, the assassin was moving quickly, leaping from rooftop to rooftop within the heart of the Toichios Kikkimos, occasionally forced to back track when fires blocked his way, or buildings had completely burned down and there was no way for him to traverse along that particular point.

And then from the corner of his eyes, through choking fumes, Myst D'Lucian had spotted a flurry of activity by the alleyway framed in flames. There were three of them, garbed in deep crimson robes fringed with a dazzling gold that reflected the harsh glare of the fire around them.

They all wielded torches, and seemed oblivious to the living wall of fires around them. Indeed, there was a maniacal glitter in their eyes to suggest their revel in such a mayhem that came to live around them. There was no mistaking who these people were in the quick mind of Myst D'Lucian.

They would be the arsonists, the ones responsible for this catastrophic disaster that had befallen the Red Isle of Eunesia.
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Old September 22, 2010, 03:09 PM   #3 (permalink)

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The advantage of taking the high ground seemed to have it's own set of disadvantages this time as the smoke from the fires rose up and over the edges of the rooftops. Having to pick his way carefully, the vysstichi would try and keep from getting agitated whenever the fires were too great to keep moving, forcing him to find another path.

His persistence paid off in time however, his silver eyes catching sight of three lovely morsels for his holy undead horde. Picking a path that would lead him to the rooftop ledge of the alleyway, Myst would lean over the edge of the building to get a good estimate of the drop and any other obstacles that might be hidden in the alleyway.

Slowly sliding his ardentium blades from their homes at his side, he grasps the edges of his cloak, his left hand holding his sword with blade pointed forward and his right holding his sword reveresed. Perching for a brief moment on the very edge of the building, Serion lets his feet slide off the edge and spreads his cloak out to slow his fall just enough that he could absorb the landing.

Aiming to land amongst the three arsonists, Serion will spin into a flurry of motion the moment his feet touch the ground, his knees bending as he funnels the momentum of the fall into his attack. Releasing his cloak as he spins, his blades were meant to make quick work of the three, his silver mask reflecting the torchlight to give him a rather devilish visage amidst his flurry.

Completing a single rotation, the master swordsman would crouch down into a low stance in order to help minimize his openings from any counterattacks, ready to start another viscious series of attacks should these arsonists appear a bit more challenging than what a first glance revealed.
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Old October 3, 2010, 08:50 AM   #4 (permalink)
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The trio of arsonists were clearly unprepared for whatever that happened next. One of them caught Myst's blade right in his midsection, flailing as he fell with spilled viscera sliding across the ground, not quite dead yet, but will be very soon. After all, death from an abdominal injury was often slow and agonizingly painful -- it was definitely one of the worst ways to go.

The others however, managed to escape mostly unscathed, another receiving a long gash along his arm that was superficial even if it bled freely. The sudden entrance wrought great advantage for the assassin, even though his prey had reacted quickly enough, and were driving him back with their burning torches. With fires screaming all around them, there was little in which Myst could maneuver away from the fires being lunged at him, except to inch backwards slowly.

A torch was suddenly thrust towards his face, and if not for the mask, Serion's face would have been severely burnt, as it was, his eyelashes were singed off by the searing heat and flames, and his eyes as well forced shut temporarily as the ghost of the fire inching every perilously close enough to force him back a few steps instinctively, arms raised to protect those soft orbs that had began to water from the smoke and heat.

Almost at the same time, Serion could feel the flames around him suddenly howling, yanking to attention by something far more primordial and sinister as the arsonists fell to their feet in beatific supplication, chanting in a strange language that sounded like ancient scriptures.

A feminine visage darted about in the fires as Serion's tear-stained vision scanned the surrounding, the appearance of the woman almost startling, hair scalped with strands of red and golden threads, eyes a whorl of dazzling yellow orange. It crossed eyes with Serion for a moment, shifting across the wall of flames with a lissome, specter-like grace, before it seemed to dive deeper across the ocean of cackling flames.

Myst did not need time or further encounters to realize that this one was no common planar creature. It breathed and seeped of latent, unbridled power. It was only a short encounter, and the creature had moved on, bringing along with it the crushing sense of presence that seemed to weaken the Vysstichi simply by being there.

The arsonists had risen to their feet again with the passing of the mysterious creature, and was now rushing towards the Vysstichi once more, one of them now bearing a knife as the arms carrying the torches were extended once more to keep the Vysstichi at bay before they reach forward to attack him.
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Old October 3, 2010, 11:26 AM   #5 (permalink)

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Blade cutting deeply into the first of the three, Serion was a bit disappointed in himself as the other two managed to come out of his surprise attack with minimal damage. It was encounters like these that fueled the vysstichi swordsman's desire for improvement in his skill, pushing him ever closer to a state of perfection. For Myst however, it was encounters like these that simply annoyed him. Firebugs deserving of having their bulbs chopped off daring to fight back? Preposturous!

Swords up and ready to defend as he looks on with satisfaction, knowing that the first of the three would soon die, the masked vysstichi's eyes narrow behind his slits as he realizes that he needs to do something about the torches that seem to just draw the very moisture from his face, baking him behind his mask, and turning his eyebrows into singed remnants of their previous glory.

Trying to devise a plan to divide and conquer the arsonists, Serion's senses are drawn to the wall of flame about him, the presence of a powerful being seeming to weigh heavily upon him. The dark elf had stood in the presence of gods, and this was no true god, but it was definately a creature to be wary of.

The cultists had stopped to chant, but Serion had been unable to act against them, engrossed by the whole ordeal like a monster allowing a megazord to form instead of smashing the pieces in the combining process. What was that flaming sprite that danced across the wall, amplifying these cultists' fighting spirits?

Shaking the weight from his shoulders, clearing his mind, the dark elf watched the cultists come back towards him. Twirling his swords quickly, he shifts his grip to let his blades run parallel with his forearms, his legs sliding into his serhingorda stance. Propelling himself forward, utilizing the Boxer's Dance of his style to remain in motion and avoid his attacker's actions, Serion will try and put the arsonists holding just the torch between him and the knife wielder.

Hoping to draw another attack from the torchbearer, Serion will employ a Blade Block, raising his left arm up to catch the torch safely against his blade as he pivots his hip to send a devastating Twisted Pommel strike at the cultist's chest.

Keeping his eyes on the knife wielder as well, the plan was to keep his cultist shield in the way until it was a one on one fight. From there, the man would have no chance, in Serion's eyes, and burnt eyebrows would simply mean there would be no pardon on these wretches.
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Old October 12, 2010, 05:56 AM   #6 (permalink)
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With the strange and unearthly presence of the unnatural beast passing, the cultists and Serion alike sprung into action.

As the Dark Elf maneuvered himself in such a manner to keep himself from having to face two attackers at the same time, the torch struck Serion's blade, flinging hundreds of embers scattering in every direction, bits of it also attaching itself onto Serion's clothes.

The man ducked adeptly from Serion's attack, and then crouched low to engage the Dark Elf in a leg sweep to force him off balance; his footwork and dazzling speed, perhaps accentuated by the hazy and wispy effect of air was fascinating to watch. Serion managed to evade the blow to his feet, his alarm likely raised and the momentum of his assault hindered and then ceased.

And so it seemed that the torch-wielder possessed a limited form of Zinn'ka after all.

Before Serion could recover himself, however, a thin ball of Hardened Air suddenly slammed into his chest, forcing him backwards, and if not for his seasoned swordsmanship, would have easily tripped over and fell back into the living wall of fire that yearned to be his tomb. As it was, he managed to regain his balance intact, though found himself backed into a corner of what seemed to be an alley with a dead-end just obscured by the smokes and shadows behind him.

While his silver mask was reflecting the harsh glow and heat of the strange flame, it too, was beginning to feel stifling as rivulets of sweat become trapped underneath the prop. The same and terrible heat seemed not to affect the cultists on the other hand, who was now standing warily watching the Dark Elf, the torch bearer still thrusting out his makeshift weapon while the one holding the knife -- likely the Magi himself, sometime Myst could ascertain for himself if he slipped into Clarity was now using the natural essences of fire around him to their own advantage.

Fires lashed out from all over him, to the point where breathing became difficult as lungs and throat become charred, dried. If he look around him, he would notice that everywhere was like a twisting tornado of melting fires, tossing, turning and spiraling towards him in an expectant doom.

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Old October 13, 2010, 04:50 PM   #7 (permalink)

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Being forced to rethink his attack was a bit of fresh air for the swordsman, the opponent proving to be a bit more martially resourceful than he would have thought. Unfortunately, that fresh air soon turned hard and rotten as the force to his chest, hopefully absorbed a bit by the ardentium chain he wore beneath his tunic, sent him back a few steps.

A snarl formed on his lips as he faced the two cultist's through the slits in his mask. It seemed they had the upper hand at the moment, already prepared for the fire about them, and with one of the two an elementalist, there was plenty of material to manipulate.

Quickly entering clara as the two men began to formulate a plan of attack, Serion channels enough life essence to formulate a temporary protection from his surroundings. Abjuring the field through him as he alters the mana to create an aura, Serion's protective barrier would only last a short time with this much fire about him.

From there, Serion steps back into his boxer's dance, bringing himself towards the torch bearing opponent while he keeps track of the so called mage's movements. Hoping to lure a strike from the torchbearer, Serion will quickly deflect, duck, and roll to the side. The maneuver was designed to bring him to the feet of the caster, his body springing up in a wicked pommel uppercut to crush the mage's jaw.

Should he connect with the pommel of his sword, he would rotate the blade in his other hand to stab straight out in a thrust, wanting to either dig his blade deep into the cultist he originally bypassed, or at least force the man to back away, leaving the mage seperated from his protective meat shield.
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Old October 22, 2010, 04:21 AM   #8 (permalink)
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Relief flooded over his body as the barrier was cast successfully, almost alleviating any form of discomfort that he may be suffering instantly. The quick reflexes of the Dark Elf allowed him to pull off his feint, forcing the torch wielder to side step and almost pitched forward into the wall of fire as he struggled to regain his balance even as the pommel arched upwards towards the Mage that had relied on the other to keep the Dark Elf away so that he could cast safely and without reprisal.

The nimble Magus pulled back just in time with a shout of terror, Serion's blade connecting with what seemed to be a shield of Hardened Air, his fingers jarring painfully against the impact and forcing him to miss the slash toward the other Cultist who also managed to duck to safety, though barely. Hardened dark eyes watched the Dark Elf recover before he held the torch towards him as if Serion was a wild animal that could be kept away by such crude machinations.

"Do not interfere with our holy work, stranger. Or a fate worse than your skin being flailed away by the sacred flames await." The accent was strange, sightly unfamiliar and almost outlandish in itself, made even more so against the crackling screams of the fire around them. And so it seemed these were worshipers, given their sprouting of religious liturgy associated with the inferno around them.

At least the Dark Elf had managed to separate the two from one another, allowing him to pick them off one by one. Problem now was that in separating them, he now had to deal with a likely two pronged attack from either side, and being able to only concentrate fully on one.

The torchbearer then lashed out deftly with a heavy swing towards Serion's mask even as he felt the magical web of his protective barrier being twisted and tugged apart by the Elementalist casting a Dispel upon him, likely to be followed by another bout of Elemental attacks after.

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Old October 22, 2010, 10:52 AM   #9 (permalink)

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"A fate worse then flames? Golly gee, whatever shall I do?!"

Ducking down as the torch bearer swings towards the dark elf's face once more, Serion's eyes narrow at the feeling of his aura being broken down by the elementalist. What a cocky little bastard. Using the momentum of his body ducking the torch attack, Serion will quickly rotate his lower body into a sweeping kick, not necessarily trying to knock over anybody so much as forcing them away from him momentarily as he recalls a technique that Faust and he had discussed a few seasons ago in the courtyard of Castle D'Rinishad.

Most things that are built can be destroyed. Spells are no different. I figured out some time ago that the same components that hold a spell together, if separated, can result in the spell’s destruction as well. They key is to sever the spell’s primary weave, its main building block .

Serion was by no means practiced in this technique, but he could improvise enough to perhaps penetrate a barrier if not destroy a spell in the same fashion that his masterful student had perfected. That thought in mind, Serion let his mind reach out for the clarity needed to look upon the elementalists spell even as his kick brought him back around. Hoping to find the weave that held the mage's protective aura about him, Serion would let on of his blades rotate in his hand, gripping it tightly as he pushed the blade upward in hopes of pushing his ardentium point through the spell and into the cultist.

His other sword was still held in a reverse grip, the dark paladin remaining crouched after his maneuver, his arm held so that the blade could be used to ward off any attacks from his other side. The torch bearer was indeed getting annoying, Serion having no love for anyone dumb enough to try and cause damage to his face, but the mage would be the death of him if he was left alone and able to cast freely.
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Old November 8, 2010, 05:41 AM   #10 (permalink)
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A single thread of magic that supported the entire structure -- it was an interesting theory, yet of course one that had been untested in itself. Arcanomechanics was after all, a subject of much debate even amongst the mage circles. Some claimed that Serion's theory, while being able to work on certain spells, would be difficult to perform upon much more experienced mages who could conceal such a particular weave during shaping, or perhaps even create a self-sustaining piece that cannot be destroyed, rendering them indispellable.

Thankfully, the mage was only a mediocre Elementalist that was not able to replicate such feats that had been rumored to exit within studies conducted by crotchety old mages who had nothing to do but come up with bizarre arcanic theories. Secondly, of course the Dark Elf was also not unfamiliar with the often chaotic weaves of Elementalists, since the essences which they employ for their machinations can often tend from a series of harmless movements to spiraling violence, much like the nature of elements itself.

The protective aura shattered as it was pulled apart by Serion's mind, forcing the rest of the spell to disintegerate upon itself much like a Dispel would.

As Serion D'Rinishad's claw draw a thin slit against the Mage's chest, causing him to shriek in pain yet was too distressed and fearful at the shattering of his spell to response in retaliation, allowing Serion's sudden attack to carefully penetrate the man's defenses.

The Dark Elf's focus on the Mage, however, drew his attention away from the torch wielder, who, at the same time, had plunged his weapon into the back of the Dark Elf, the hot, glowing splinters shoved deep into Serion's back on the dead center of his spine as the cruel ambers and flames melted his clothes to his armor -- which would have otherwise caused heinous burns to his skin.

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Old December 1, 2010, 09:33 PM   #11 (permalink)

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The sudden force of the attack at his back caused the dark elf to curse, his cloak and shirt surely ruined by the flames as he drew back from his attack on the mage to spin about on his right foot, his left sword aimed to strike the torch bearer's torch arm. The blade in his right hand would rotate, the grip changed so that the blade was held outward instead of down his forearm, his hips aiding in providing force as he thrusts out at the would be backstabber while his left leg strikes out at the gut of the mage he just slashed, hopefully being close enough to the alley wall to smash him hard against the building.

These lackeys were becoming bothersome, much more skilled than his arrogance had accounted for when he hoped for a trio of quick and easy kills. Granted, he could have simply paralyzed the lot of them before leaping out and slitting their throats, but where was the thrill and adventure in hunting domesticated game? Such thoughts now left the dark paladin with one dead cultist, a wounded mage, and an annoying torch bearer that would live only so that Serion could make him pay for the damage dealt to him by the damnable flames.

Hoping to remove the cultist's torch arm and impale him, or at least cause some injuries forcing him to retreat, Serion will retract his extended limbs upon completion of the attack before spinning with his right sword still extended, wanting to end the life of the mage once and for all. He had wanted no part in stopping these cultists, to be quite honest, but his ego had been burned quite literally, and while he could make this one last cultist pay dearly for his actions, the elemental like being that had passed him was what bolstered these fools in the first place.

"Tell me why you are burning this city down and for whom, and perhaps I shall not torture you half as long as I plan to."
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Old January 6, 2011, 08:19 AM   #12 (permalink)
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In a dazzling attempt, the Vysstichi managed to land his blows upon the torch bearer, slicing his arm off midway between his wrist and his elbow while forcing the Mage to fall back against a wall that was fortunately untouched by the raging conflagration. Stunned momentarily by the impact, the mage only stood dumbly, unable to gather the concentration he needed to slip into Clara.

At such close quarters, without the protection from his guard, the Elementalist was practically useless, lacking the ability to shape and cast his spells faster than Serion's blades. A swift assault by the Vysstichi pierced the Mage through his ribs, wrenching at his heart and striking him dead almost instantly. He didn't even have a chance to defend himself, or shield himself with his arms that could perhaps saved him from a certain death.

The one cultist still alive clutched at his bleeding arm as he stared stonily at his executioner. There was no fear in his eyes as the question was asked, and indeed, when answered, Serion could almost swear he heard a hint of pride coloring that man's voice as he spoke. The pool of blood on the hot ground grew wider as his amputated limb continued to bleed quickly without a tourniquet available.

"We do it in the name of the Empress. The one true ruler of the realms. Secyclion is only the beginning, soon all over, everyone shall know of her holy flames." The creature laughed mockingly, as if he alone knew secrets and answers that shall forever elude the Vysstichi. His arm was bleeding freely and it won't be long before he would bleed out

"My spirit and soul has been anointed by her holy fire. I fear not the winnowing of my flesh, heretic." The man hissed, and spat on the silver mask of Myst D'Lucian as he finally twisted his eyebrows in a sign of pain from the grievous stump of an arm.

"Just kill me, you smug bastard."

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Old January 11, 2011, 09:33 PM   #13 (permalink)

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With two dead cultists and one ready to join his comrads, Serion snapped his sword down towards the ground to shake off the blood of his latest kills. This particular fight had been more than he had expected, and his blood was boiling from anger more than the heat surrounding him.

"The Empress?"

He could not recall from the top of his head the history of the Fire Empress, but he could probably learn more as he went about hunting down whatever had empowered these would be heretics.

"Your assumptions that I would kill you might have been correct before you decided to set flame to my clothing."

Patting at a few smoldering pieces of fabric that hadn't quite been put out, Serion suddenly strikes across with his ardentium blade, aiming at the elbow of the man's good arm whilst he was busy stemming the bloodflow from his first stump.

"Letting you take your own life is so much more gratifying. You desire to be at one with your Empress' fire? Then let her have your body as well."

Calling upon the healing powers of his thaumaturgic plane, Serion would funnel enough energy to cast a healing spell on the armless cultist, wanting to stop the bloodflow enough to prevent him from bleeding out any more than he already had.

"Your body is damaged beyond what I desire it for, so do have fun playing with the flames you helped to spread."

Stepping back from the man, Serion would kick at the bodies of the two cultist he presumed to have died by now, ensuring their statuses as corpses. Turning his masked gaze back at the living cultist Serion would smile as he sheaths his blade, sliding his wooden sword in his belt as well. Folding his arms across his chest, he would lean idly against the wall of the alley and see what this man would choose to do with his life.

It was the little things that one found most amusing after all.
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