The under-city Vynlarion was within was permeated heavily with magical residue. Arcane, seemingly so familiar but so foreign, caressed his person as he stood. The feeling of the magic was lighter than the arcane of Quel’Thalas, seemingly colder, too, as though it had adapted to the frigid climate it was fostered in. However, the sheer amount of magic that the elder Blood Knight could sense was simply staggering. His ambient Light seemed to be almost suffocated by the immense, foreign magicks around him. He could feel it invigorating his person, as though he were a thousand years younger. Moreover, the dark magicks of the armour he adorned seemed to draw it in, empowering him without repose. He could almost taste the magic around him, and it took a great deal of restraint to not begin to channel as though he had not done so in years.
The foreign creatures around him stood with their fur
shielded heads bowed. What they actually looked like under all that fur
remained a mystery to the invigorated elf, however he ignored such for now. What they looked like was unimportant,
what was to be found through turning these people to accepting magic as his
ancestors had done ten millennia beforehand. The first one, which had pointed a
spear at him, remained with the deepest look of servitude. The elevator, akin
to how those in the Undercity of the Forsaken functioned, was oddly ornate for
such a beastly looking people. Intricate designs in a bright silver metal were
carved into the walls that raced by them as they descended further into the as
of yet unknown city. “Tell me, children of Kulthan, for I have sought to guard
you so long for the evils unknown to you that the land herself is a stranger to
me, how long has this winter lasted?” Vynlarion continued to speak their language
fluidly, and when he spoke he could see a few of those peculiar Tel’thakians
shuddered and slunk back toward the walls which had begun to slow around them.
Met with nervous silence, Vynlarion turned to the one behind him in the
circular elevator, staring down the creature who had drawn a weapon on him.
“Tell me, young one.” He said firmly.
The creature shuddered for a moment and gave a muffled
mumble entirely foreign to Vynlarion. The elf frowned; had the rune Ranathos
given him begun to fail? If so this would become intensely difficult. He peered
at the creature, which lifted its stubby arms to its shielded head. Was it
crying? ‘How unsightly…’ Vynlarion
mused with displeasure. However, the creature did something the Blood Knight
did not expect; it reached into its shielded face and with a metallic click,
its fur… loosened. Grasping the sides of its head and began to pull its thick
fur back… It was not head, it was a hood! However, as the hood was pulled back,
only a vaguely humanoid head could be discerned from a thick black form fitting
hood. From what he saw, pointed ears roughly the length of a half human half
elf’s ears and went straight back, as opposed to his own longer ears which rose
upward. They were almost a mix between Night Elf, Half Elf, and Blood Elf ears.
The creature then trailed a hand down its almost cylindrical body and with a
few more metal clips, Vynlarion realised that this too was just a peculiar kind
of coat. Another one of the cloaked figures scrambled towards the disrobing figure
and quickly took the long alien coat into its arms. The first figure now
revealed itself to be even more like himself than Vynlarion expected.
Adorning thick, well adorned robes, the creature was all but
identical to an Azerothian being in almost every regard. Two legs, two arms,
all of which were strong and covered in muscle, much akin to himself, however
such an adaptation was likely due to the necessity of keeping warm in such a
frigid climate. The robes it wore were adorned with thick wolf-like fur on the
cuffs, however it had been groomed into being soft and well maintained.
Moreover, the entire ensemble was crisscrossed in silver with violet accents.
Two eerie glowing white eyes stared out at him as the creature removed the
thick heat retaining black cloth around its head, which also revealed long
violet hair that reached down to its lower back. The resemblance to some sort
of elf was frightening and Vynlarion felt his eyes widen as it spoke in a fluid
and refined voice; “Great One, Highest of Crests, Bulwark of the North, I
beseech thee, take no anger with we your unworthy children. I offer you my life
in reparations for my acts against you, for when you descended from the heavens
I assumed you to be the creature that those of the frozen south believe sacred,
Ranathos the Daemon.” The creature who spoke fell to its knees and Vynlarion
could feel a distinct growth in his ego. Watching the figure fall to its knees
pathetically, he decided that it might be wiser to act as a benevolent deity
and gain their favour as opposed to fear.
“You have nothing to fear, child, for I harbor no rage
toward you. My divine love shines upon you still, and your worry was justified.
The Daemon you speak of is no favour to me. Long have we battled in the
heavens, though I foresee his fall soon, and have come to thee to ask of your
aid. I am but one against many, and my divine brethren have all fallen or been
captured. Bring to me to your archons of politics, bring me to your magisters
and priests. I will speak to them. This mortal form I have taken gives me only
so much power, it entraps me.” His speech was met with gasps and grunts of
shock and awe along with various short prayers of hope and love. Three of the creatures
crumpled to the ground, tentatively brushing their three fingers – one thumbed
hands on his greaves before flinching away worriedly.
One of them, the one who placed a peculiar hand over the
spiked toe of his greave spoke quietly; “Majestic Bulwark, the Magisterium and
Clergy, they d-do not speak to one another, they are at war without weapons as
it were…” The female Tel’thak stammered nervously. Vynlarion smirked just a
little; it was exactly as how Ranathos had explained the situation to be. All
he had to do was tip the balance in the favor of the power hungry magisters.
Vynlarion smirked a little wider, realising the simplicity of what he had to
do. Vynlarion nodded to the one at his feet, though did not speak. Having
reached their destination, the elevator they stood in was abruptly opened to an
ornate and impressive looking hall sculpted into the rock of an immense cavern
so large that, though Vynlarion was apparently in its centre, the edges were
lost to him. In the centre of the cavern was a sprawling, multileveled bazaar
with countless Tal’thakians milling about; old and young, male and female,
their multiplicity was staggering to a man so accustomed to seeing the grand
streets of Quel’Thalas so quiet. He and the Tel’thakians he travelled with
stepped off the elevator only to be completely surrounded by legions uncounted.
Countless peoples of the Tel’thak swarmed Vynlarion,
reaching out tentatively to caress his armour, and some tried to reach for his
face or hair, though their hands were angrily swatted away by those he had met
on the surface. More gathered and many began to ask for blessings or to heal
the wounded, and the elder Blood Knight disguised as their God began to grow
weary of all the begging. He raised his hand into the air and let his voice
boom with unholy might, empowered by the thick, arcane infested air. “Silence!”
His voice echoed off the entire chamber with such might that Vynlarion himself
cringed at how deafeningly loud he had been. “I greet you all, sons and
daughters of Kulthan! I, the High Crest, Bulwark of the North, have come to end
your quarrel! A great enemy in the heavens has unseated my brethren, but he
will fall to your might! It is time to unify the Tel’thak!” Silence followed
his words and an eerie presence began to come into being before Vynlarion. The
crowd parted and an elderly figure whose eyes were a brilliant glowing white,
brighter than those of his kin, shambled toward him. Clad in pure white robes
lined with gold fur that seemed to almost glow, his grey hair moving side to
side over his slumped back as he walked. The elder man attempted to fall to his
knees, but Vynlarion stepped forward, stopping the man from falling to his
knees; an act of humility would go a long way, but in the back of his mind, the
elder Blood Knight knew he would have to remove the venerated old man from the
equation.
“I am the Archdeacon
of the Tel’thak, Velus… God of Protection, the fates have told of your arrival,
and moreover the destruction of our true
enemy.” The ancient looking being said cryptically, and Vynlarion frowned
inward. The Archdeacon of the Tel’thak peered deeply at Vynlarion who merely
met his gaze. “You have sought us out and we are honoured beyond reproach, o’ Glorious
Vynlarion, when you are ready, I will meet you in the throne room. Enjoy the
beauty of this beautiful city.” The Archdeacon offered Vynlarion a kind smile
and humble bow before turning and leaving the lying Blood Knight to his
devices.
A few priestly looking men and women looked torn between
Vynlarion and the Archdeacon, however upon a few words lost over the hum of
hushed conversation around him before those priestly fellows remained with the
Blood Knights. However, from Vynlarion’s right grew an immensely powerful being
grew closer, though remained out of sight for the moment. Invisible arcs of
arcane flickered high into the air and the elder knight-lord knew that, were he
to battle this man, his chances were thin. Parapets came into view, detailing a
white fox on its hind legs with cerulean eyes that seemed to glitter on the
dull cloth. “Make way for the Primal Flame! Make way for the Vice-Regent of the
Realm!” One of the as of yet unknown figures shouted. Vynlarion turned toward
the commotion and seemed to reluctantly part for the newcomers. Two men flanked
a small column of men and women robed in finely wrought cloths with various
staves on their backs, likely indicating social status. The column parted and
from it strode a rather magnificent looking figure that struck an eerie
familiarity.
A woman clad in a high collared crimson robe slowly made her
way before Vynlarion. Adorned in fine golden necklaces that made concentric
ovals over her robe covered chest and her hands were folded before her, hidden
in the black fur covered cuffs. She offered him a small smile and a deep bow; “The
great Bulwark has come to honour our lovely nation with his immortal presence.
Descended from the heavens you’ve come and to bring hopes of unity and peace
for our wintry people. Tell me o’ great one, so that I might better serve you.”
A few shocked gasps echoed her humble words and Vynlarion quite quickly
surmised that this woman was indeed much like Erythis; powerful and lovely, but
an alternate agenda was surely there.
‘This is the one that
Ranathos spoke of. The one I must turn to his favour. Then the Archdeacon must
die.’ Vynlarion thought to himself glibly. This was an ugly mission, for he
could tell that the Archdeacon was a fine and just man, and would likely make
an excellent ruler of this land, but it could not be… ‘I cannot forget my mission. Lathinal, we will be together come hells or
high water.’ Vynlarion steeled himself as he eyed the woman before him, an
irrational hatred coming to mind as he was sorely reminded of Erythis. ‘That power mad woman who dared to shirk my
generous offer… I was going to save her family! Now she’s lost it to the Del’vars,
those greedy, thieving lowborne scum…’ Vynlarion sneered inwardly, his mind
quite firmly set on his distaste for both families and suddenly very glad to be
away from all that once and for all. “Greetings, Primal Flame of the Tel’thak.
I am indeed the Bulwark of the Gods, Vynlarion the High Crest. I have come to
sew peace in this tumultuous land and lead you all to glory. A great evil is
befalling these frozen lands, and my brethren gods are gone or captured by the
dark one, Ranathos. Accompany me to the throneroom, the Archdeacon awaits us so
that we may end your conflicts.” The lady looked as though she was about to
talk, before Vynlarion simply turned toward the palatial towers he had seen in
the direction the Archdeacon had left toward.
~
Vynlarion sat upon the foreign throne of the Tel’thakians.
The chair was wide and covered in finely hewn furs making the seat oddly
comfortable and warm, given the cool temperature of the subterranean city.
Moreover, it sat high upon a dais gilded in flowing golden designs detailing
great mountains in icy landscapes, great battles between the Tel’thak and
creatures so foreign they boggled the mind of the Azerothian fake god. Before
him stood the Archdeacon and Primal Flame in what appeared to be a heated
discussion. The former looked entirely calm, but his brow was furrowed,
evidently by frustration, and the latter appeared calm and held her hands
before her, but a furious gaze was held in her eyes. The Archdeacon spoke; “Dal’thin,
do not be mad. If you continue your reckless magical practices the Great Demon
and the rest of this… Burning Legion. Are you so eager to see us all serve
them? Thank the Gods that one of them has come to aid us.” The elderly man
motioned to Vynlarion, and the Primal Flame Dal’thin spared him a frigid
glance.
The woman herself seemed to be quite insulted at the man’s
words and her gaze narrowed on the Archdeacon. She released her hands from
their position before her and folded them under her bosom before speaking. “Velus,”
she began, addressing the Archdeacon by his name, “why do you think I want to
further our magical research? Because
the Burning Legion is here. They know we can use this power! They are already
here, the Great Bulwark sits upon the kingless throne because he is here to help
us through that!” Her voice rose considerably. The royal guard, little more than
steward of an empty throne, cast nervous glances around the room to one
another. From the informality with how they addressed one another to how Dal’thin
seemed to almost command the God-given-mortal-form before them on the throne. “We
cannot stand idly by! If we let the Legion come to our doorstep only to stop we
will fall.” Dal’thin hissed out
angrily. Vynlarion pursed his lips in thought, she raised a very good point,
but…
“Power unrestrained will only invite them into our ranks,
Dal’thin.” Velus began, still sounding entirely calm. “Look at how close they
are now, they’re watching us from en high, who knows how many of our people are
spies.” The elderly man turns to Vynlarion, “Great Bulwark, please.” Dal’thin and
Velus faced him expectantly and an ominous silence fell. The elder Blood Knight
remained looking impassive, not allowing mortal affairs to seemingly bother the
supposed God. His gaze drifted from Velus to Dal’thin, then to each guard
gathered, and then to the closed doors where it was quite likely a crowd had
gathered. The silence continued to grow as nervous glances flickered away from
his own as he looked around.
Vynlarion rose from the throne and looked to Dal’thin,
first. “Dal’thin, Primal Flame.” He spoke first, his voice sounding benevolent
and truly godly as he used the excess arcane around. “I have seen many lands
beyond Kulthan. Lands where the Burning Legion has enslaved millions, destroyed
their lands and turned them against others once innocent. Power is what brings
the Legion to one’s home. Power is what destroys them.” His words seemed to
anger the woman, however she remained silent as Vynlarion turned to Velus. “Velus,
holy man and Archdeacon. Your Light shines brighter than the noonday sun and
you are just and true. But you cannot fear the change that is taking your
lands.” The elderly man nodded, evidently already understanding such. Vynlarion
could feel the dread for what he had to do rising in his stomach like bile. It
was an evil and disgusting act, one that would mar his soul irrevocably. He
stepped down off the dais and before the two Vice-Regents of the Tul’thak and
drew the wicked blade off his back. “Observe this blade, Archdeacon, Primal
Flame. Look at its evil. Look at the armor I adorn. It has been made so by the
darkness of the Burning Legion. I battled endlessly and they have made it so.
They corrupted my armour, but they have not corrupted me.” He sheathed the
blade and he fell silent.
Indecision wracked his soul and mind. Must he kill them and
let Ranathos swoop in and take these people, lost and scared, into the Legion? ‘Lathinal… What depths must I sink to?’
With that he steeled his heart, feeling the darkness of the Legion’s magic
beginning to seep into him, though he put it out of his mind. “It must be so…”
He whispered to himself. With blinding speed, his blade swung out right,
cleanly cutting a deep wound into the fair and beautiful Dal’thin who let out
of a strangled cry as the blade opened her midsection. Her innards spilled
outward with a sloshing sound as she fell to the ground, her brilliant whit
eyes growing dull. “I am truly sorry…” He said sadly. A shocked Velus brought a
hand upward, the Light coming to bear.
“Demons disguised as Gods, is there no one we can trust! I
knew you were less than you appeared!” Velus spat out angrily, and threw his
magic at Vynlarion. The elder Blood Knight raised a hand, a shield of arcane
coming to bear just in time to stop the Archdeacon’s attack. Vynlarion surged
forward, greaves sliding against the stone ground as he floated toward the man
on unholy magicks that brought him aloft. With one smooth movement, he threw
the man to the ground who cried out in agony as a snapping sound followed his
landing, for evidently the man had broken something. Struggling to stand, the
man fell backward, and righteous fury filled his eyes. “You killed her! She was
just a foolish girl who found a new toy and you killed her! Why?!” The holy man
demanded, agony and sorrow filling his voice. Vynlarion tossed the blood soaked
wing-like blade away, finding it to make him feel all the more disgusting and
unworthy of the admiration these people had shown him.
Dropping to his knee, he pushed the old Tul’thakian into the
floor, “Stay down and listen!” He hissed angrily. “No, I am no god, I merely
used my magicks to make myself appear as one. I am from a place called Azeroth,
a land which has defied the Burning Legion, possibly the only one. You want
your planet to live? It will not do so with you here. Take those who would not
betray you and flee. You will not win a direct assault against the Legion. None
can. But you must retake this land when they have left with the majority of
their forces. Now go!” Vynlarion grabbed the man, and with a massive force of
arcane and Light, threw the doors open to the throne room and tossed the man a
massive distance into the bodies of priestly men. Vynlarion rose, stepping over
to his dark blade and looked to those gathered. “I relinquish all that makes me
mortal in the name of the Legion, so that darkness may not take this land by my
hand!” He proclaims loudly, a tear falling from his right eye, stained black. “I
do so in the name of my beloved, Lathinal! Let none dare challenge their might,
so long as she is returned to me!” His words echoed off the royal room and with
his massive blade in hand, he turned it about and with the sickening sound of
metal piercing metal and skin being ruptured and impaled, Vynlarion Highcrest
ran himself through.
Stumbling backward, blade buried so far through that it
stabbed through the tattered cloak on his back, he fell into the throne,
shattering the magnificent seat utterly. His breath sputtered out as he
collapsed onto the dais, blood oozing from his mouth. He reached a hand upward
and the Light exploded out of his very being, fleeing, escaping. It came out in
waves and pulses, and he felt the perverse magic of the Legion filling him,
corroding him, corrupting him. He screamed in pure agony, another voice
screaming from his mouth; demonic and hollow. From without his own volition, he
rose onto his feet and tore the blade from his chest, shattering it after
throwing it into the ground. With a bloodcurdling cry he tore from his right
arm in one smooth movement pieces of ruined armour as though they were nothing
but weak tin. The flesh underneath now somewhat revealed coursed with black
magic in his veins, and the slender lines of flesh began undulating and
expanding. He gripped the arm and let forth a feral growl as he tore more
armour from his hand now, revealing his unsightly hand which had begun to grow
and elongate wickedly.
Once just black veins, his entire right arm had turned
monstrous and disfigured. Horn-like spikes exploded out of his upper arm and he
roared in agony as his bones morphed into such monstrosities. Moreover, his
fingers had become long and demonic, turning to claws and shuddered with
demonic power. The corruption upon his arm began to spread to his chest and
from his midsection he tore his breastplate off in one clean stroke of the
newly demonic hand, the back of the armament falling backward. Tearing his
greaves off to reveal he pants which he wore underneath, he leaned back and
screamed in a language foreign to his ears. However, he felt a stabbing pain
erupt from his head as his bones further morphed into a more heinous state.
From his once perfect skin, such an example of elven beauty, now stained black
and violet with dark power. Now protruding from his forehead were two long
horns, black as night and curing upward and creating an upside down omega
symbol. Vynlarion’s verdant eyes, now a wicked, darker abomination, flared
madly as he felt more abominable creations burst from his back. With a bloody
and horrendously gruesome explosion of flesh, two demonic wings exploded forth
and splayed blackened blood outward. Vynlarion let one more now demonic roar
outward before slumping forward.
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