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Dec 22 2015 06:23pm
It started, as many conquests do...with a desire for glory. We thirteen, the chosen vanguard of Heaven, annointed by the very angels we so often worshipped, were to be the anvil upon which Hell's forces would be crushed. We few, against so very many...we should have known of the fate that awaits all those who tread this path. From Kurast, we set out, following the Guiding Star shown to us by the angels. In our dreams, they showed us glorious prophecies, deaths in battle given for the Great War's victory, lives lived with the utmost meaning, standing anathema to the forces set on devouring our entire race. And yet...their prophecies were only half truths, twisted visions of what fate truly had in store...I do not resent them, nor do I resent my new alotted place in this world...but I cannot keep these venomous thoughts within any longer. Let this...doubt....be purged with this confession. Let the bloodletting of these poisonous thoughts steel my soul, for I know the battle ahead will be much fiercer than that which we have endured. I find myself asking in the dark when I am alone, where did these doubts begin? I tell myself that they are merely a product of such damning exposure to the Hells. I lie to myself. I know when it began. When the first of our proud company, my brother, fell. Torono, he was called. It seems a lifetime ago, but it stands a mere year. The Guiding Light had let us from Kurast deep into the jungle where we came upon a temple. Within stood an altar colored copper from the dried blood staining its every surface. We approached, wary and alert for any sign of a trap or residence, but we found none. A small walkway stretched to an archway in the center of the room, but aside from this and a scattering of runes across the altar, we found no clue and our guide now seemed wholly absent. Ezekial, the oldest amongst us, was a practictioner of the sorcerous arts and came forth to try to decipher the runes. He could make out very little, but from what we could discern, the only way to "Open the Gateway of Sin" was to "Commit ultimately to the path". We discussed the ominous words for some time but could find little else to aid us. This, I see, was the first test placed upon us as mortal champions. The gateway would only open to blood, spilled in the name of sin. It was Torono who decided himself that one would die. My own brother, seeing the path before us...decided I was to be sacrificed. None stopped him when he knocked me to the ground. None of my companions attempted to aid me as I battled to fight my own kin off. None rose to my aid when the knife, the sharp blade I had no recollection of drawing, had slashed across his throat, spilling his vitality onto the floor in pulsing waves. I cried out for aid, from my companions, from the angels, from anyone...but none came. His blood pooled on the floor until finally running into a small curved surface towards the end...and igniting an unholy red flame within the archway. I will never forget the deep anguish and rage I felt as the booming voice called from nowhere to "Go. Go before you cannot." With grief and blood staining my face, I looked to my fallen brother, the look of sanguinity on his face in grim repose, and turned my back to enter into the Hellscape. After that, I felt numbed to the losses. Gromish fell forging a path from the Gate as the rest of us gathered ourselves together. Lanassa died in the searing flames of a Pit Lord, even as she ripped the wings from the creature immolating her. One after another my companions fell, though I found it hard to care or focus on their deaths. We were all going to die here. I became convinced this entire journey was a pennance in and of itself for our vainglorious thoughts of helping in the deciding battle between Heaven and Hell. Soon there were only four of us left, Horatio, sent by the Mage Clans, Analla and Jamella, the sisters who had arrived two days prior to our departure, completing the sacred group of 13 we were told to await, and myself. The two sisters were both slight in frame and wielded exotic blades. Jemalla's was a deep blue and radiated with a soft inner light. Analla held a curved staff that ended in a twisted growth of spikes and hooks. The two kept to themselves for most of the journey, though both had approached and offered a kind word of Torono after his fall. When I inquired about their weapons, the two seemed guarded and secretive. Both, it seemed, were obtained at high cost, though what that sacrifice was they would not illuminate on, claiming that they were "gifts to show them the way". We were resting in what we thought passed for night on the Hellscape, when a terrifying scream jerked us all from half-rest and the paranoid slumber that only a constant battle for life can offer. Analla, Jamella's sister, was floating several feet off the ground and howling at the top of her lungs, far louder and more guttural than any human should ever be able to. The scream became an anguished roar of pain and hate, and when her eyes finally came to rest, they were not the eyes of the tailor and champion of the Light that was Analla, they were the deep pits of possession. Jamella cried out, but with a flick of the wrist Analla sent her kin hurtling away and carving a furrow through the ash thick ground. Horatio and I knew that Analla was no more, devoured by whatever dark force was puppeteering her body from within. With cries of Justice on our lips, we charged our fallen comrade. Horatio barely had time to thrust his ensorcelled blade forth before his neck was snatched up by the beastly strength of the possessed Analla, the wicked points of her barbed weapon ramming through his chest as he gurgled in blood drowned pain. She screamed an unearthly banshee's wail directly into his face and Horatio's skull exploded into pulped brain matter and skull fragments. The monsters gargantuan strength was turned on me next, pinning me to the ground. Rancid breath gusted out and I braced myself for the coming death, offering one last prayer to the Light that this foul demon be stricken down and our fallen sister spared this death-that-was-no-death. I glared into her eyes, seeing the last remnant of pleading sanity begging for release, a release I could not offer that shamed me to be so infuriatingly helpless. Golden light. So bright...I thought it was my Ascension. A golden and azure blade ruptured through the chest of Analla, a grief stricken sister casting the shadow of death over her rapidly diminishing form. Jamella hurled the azure blade far from her in a disgusted cry, but it did not strike the ground. Relief flooded Analla's eyes momentarily before bleeding out alongside the rest of her soul. I looked up into Jamella's eyes, looking into her soul and seeing the same torturous pain blooming where one had taken the life of a beloved sibling. Tears of anger and grief fell in a stream from her face, falling to the ground and hissing softly. I rose and hugged her, holding her tight in the first and last moment I have ever shared with any of Heaven's champions. Together, we wept at the injustice of our fallen siblings and the tragic loss of their lights in this world. Through our tears, we beheld a golden miracle, the first sign since my brothers death that our cause was Righteous. Tyrael, the Archangel of Justice, shimmered into being before us. He cast his arms about, in his hand the vibrant azure blade Jemalla had carried, and where his gestures fell, great fortifications arose. Walls of obsidian began to climb from the ground, the land around our small sanctuary fell away, leaving only a small precarious bridge connecting to us to anything else. As I looked down, golden flowing armor covered my limbs as Jamella was covered in a similar silver garb. Tyrael looked down at us and we felt his immense sorrow simply in his beautific gaze.
A voice weary with witnessed strife spoke to us from the golden figure, "You have given all. You have lost all. Yet you remain. You two, remain a bastion against the forces of evil. Your souls are the very bulwarks you see around you, existing through all struggle and strife and forging on. This sanctuary's existence is owed solely to you...and so I come with a new mandate. Rest. Remain vigilant, but rest. You have bled both in body and soul, and you have accomplished what many of the greatest of my kind could never dream of. Rest and remain here. Keep your faith, and it will keep you. Others will come, and from their fires you will be reignited in your conviction. I promise you. Heaven has not abandoned you. I will not abandon you." He then turned to Jemalla, resting a heavenly gauntlet upon her shoulder. "I told you I would guide you, even at your darkest hour." The sword she once wielded, now held in the hands of its true owner, began to shift. Blazing light roared into life around the blade, its size and wicked edge growing and taking on an almost organic crystalline shape. "I did not forsake my promise. And you've no need of my sword any longer."
Jemalla gasped, "Az-Azurewrath? The fabled weapon of Justice itself..." she whispered in awe.
"I would not charge you with this duty, knowing what blood you may need shed, and expect you to shoulder this burden alone", he said as he turned, dissapearing behind the fortress walls. We see him with growing frequency, ghosting through and checking on our bastion. I believe the day draws near that this battle might finally come to a close. Whether through my death or the victory of others, I know I will have done my part. We walked and battled to forge this last bastion, but it was Torono and Analla who built it. It is the duty of those who follow to make their sacrifice into victory. It is the duty of those who remain to keep this...the Pandemonium Fortress...to ensure those that follow can enact the Justice so richly deserved. And be they deserving of Justice's wrath, then may they feel the blessing and the curse that is the right to wield Azurewrath.
-Halbu
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Dec 22 2015 07:37pm
It started, as many conquests do...with a desire for glory. We thirteen, the chosen vanguard of Heaven, annointed by the very angels we so often worshipped, were to be the anvil upon which Hell's forces would be crushed. We few, against so very many...we should have known of the fate that awaits all those who tread this path. From Kurast, we set out, following the Guiding Star shown to us by the angels. In our dreams, they showed us glorious prophecies, deaths in battle given for the Great War's victory, lives lived with the utmost meaning, standing anathema to the forces set on devouring our entire race. And yet...their prophecies were only half truths, twisted visions of what fate truly had in store...I do not resent them, nor do I resent my new alotted place in this world...but I cannot keep these venomous thoughts within any longer. Let this...doubt....be purged with this confession. Let the bloodletting of these poisonous thoughts steel my soul, for I know the battle ahead will be much fiercer than that which we have endured. I find myself asking in the dark when I am alone, where did these doubts begin? I tell myself that they are merely a product of such damning exposure to the Hells. I lie to myself. I know when it began. When the first of our proud company, my brother, fell.

Torono, he was called. It seems a lifetime ago, but it stands a mere year. The Guiding Light had let us from Kurast deep into the jungle where we came upon a temple. Within stood an altar colored copper from the dried blood staining its every surface. We approached, wary and alert for any sign of a trap or residence, but we found none. A small walkway stretched to an archway in the center of the room, but aside from this and a scattering of runes across the altar, we found no clue and our guide now seemed wholly absent. Ezekial, the oldest amongst us, was a practictioner of the sorcerous arts and came forth to try to decipher the runes. He could make out very little, but from what we could discern, the only way to "Open the Gateway of Sin" was to "Commit ultimately to the path". We discussed the ominous meaning for some time but could find little else to aid us. This, I see, was the first test placed upon us as mortal champions. The gateway would only open to blood, spilled in the name of sin. It was Torono who decided himself that one would die. My own brother, seeing the path before us...decided I was to be sacrificed. None stopped him when he knocked me to the ground. None of my companions attempted to aid me as I battled to fight my own kin off. None rose to my aid when the knife, the sharp blade I had no recollection of drawing, had slashed across his throat, spilling his vitality onto the floor in pulsing waves. I cried out for aid, from my companions, from the angels, from anyone...but none came. His blood pooled on the floor until finally running into a small curved surface towards the end...and igniting an unholy red flame within the archway. I will never forget the deep anguish and rage I felt as the booming voice called from nowhere to "Go. Go before you cannot." With grief and blood staining my face, I looked to my fallen brother, the look of sanguinity on his face in grim repose, and turned my back to enter into the Hellscape.

After that, I felt numbed to the losses. Gromish fell forging a path from the Gate as the rest of us gathered ourselves together. Lanassa died next, in the searing flames of a Pit Lord, even as she ripped the wings from the creature immolating her. One after another my companions fell, though I found it hard to care or focus on their deaths. We were all going to die here. I became convinced this entire journey was a pennance in and of itself for our vainglorious thoughts of helping in the deciding battle between Heaven and Hell. Soon there were only four of us left, Horatio, sent by the Mage Clans, Analla and Jamella, the sisters who had arrived two days prior to our departure, completing the sacred group of 13 we were told to await, and myself. The two sisters were both slight in frame and wielded exotic blades. Jemalla's was a deep blue and radiated with a soft inner light. Analla held a curved staff that ended in a twisted growth of spikes and hooks. The two kept to themselves for most of the journey, though both had approached and offered a kind word of Torono after his fall. When I inquired about their weapons, the two seemed guarded and secretive. Both, it seemed, were obtained at high cost, though what that sacrifice was they would not illuminate on, claiming that they were "gifts to show them the way".
We were resting in what we thought passed for night on the Hellscape, when a terrifying scream jerked us all from half-rest and the paranoid slumber that only a constant battle for life can offer. Analla, Jamella's sister, was floating several feet off the ground and howling at the top of her lungs, far louder and more guttural than any human should ever be able to. The scream became an anguished roar of pain and hate, and when her eyes finally came to rest, they were not the eyes of the tailor and champion of the Light that was Analla, they were the deep pits of possession. Jamella cried out, but with a flick of the wrist Analla sent her kin hurtling away and carving a furrow through the ash thick ground. Horatio and I knew that Analla was no more, devoured by whatever dark force was puppeteering her body from within. With cries of Justice on our lips, we charged our fallen comrade. Horatio barely had time to thrust his ensorcelled blade forth before his neck was snatched up by the beastly strength of the possessed Analla, the wicked points of her barbed weapon ramming through his chest as he gurgled in blood drowned pain. She screamed an unearthly banshee's wail directly into his face and Horatio's skull exploded into pulped brain matter and skull fragments. The monsters gargantuan strength was turned on me next, pinning me to the ground. Rancid breath gusted out and I braced myself for the coming death, offering one last prayer to the Light that this foul demon be stricken down and our fallen sister spared this death-that-was-no-death. I glared into her eyes, seeing the last remnant of pleading sanity begging for release, a release I could not offer that shamed me to be so infuriatingly helpless. Golden light. So bright...I thought it was my Ascension. A golden and azure blade ruptured through the chest of Analla, a grief stricken sister casting the shadow of death over her rapidly diminishing form. Jamella hurled the azure blade far from her in a disgusted cry, but it did not strike the ground. Relief flooded Analla's eyes momentarily before bleeding out alongside the rest of her soul. I looked up into Jamella's eyes, looking into her soul and seeing the same torturous pain blooming where one had taken the life of a beloved sibling. Tears of anger and grief fell in a stream from her face, falling to the ground and hissing softly. I rose and hugged her, holding her tight in the first and last moment I have ever shared with any of Heaven's champions. Together, we wept at the injustice of our fallen siblings and the tragic loss of their lights in this world. Through our tears, we beheld a golden miracle, the first sign since my brothers death that our cause was truly Righteous. Tyrael, the Archangel of Justice, shimmered into being before us. He cast his arms about, in his hand the vibrant azure blade Jemalla had carried, and where his gestures fell, great fortifications arose. Walls of obsidian began to climb from the ground, the land around our small sanctuary fell away, leaving only a small precarious bridge connecting to us to anything else. As I looked down, golden flowing armor covered my limbs as Jamella was covered in a similar silver garb. Tyrael looked down at us and we felt his immense sorrow simply in his beautific gaze.

A voice weary with witnessed strife spoke to us from the golden figure, "You have given all. You have lost all. Yet you remain. You two, remain a bastion against the forces of evil. Your souls are the very bulwarks you see around you, existing through all struggle and strife and forging on. This sanctuary's existence is owed solely to you...and so I come with a new mandate. Rest. Remain vigilant, but rest. You have bled both in body and soul, and you have accomplished what many of the greatest of my kind could never dream of. Rest and remain here. Keep your faith, and it will keep you. Others will come, and from their fires you will be reignited in your conviction. I promise you. Heaven has not abandoned you. I will not abandon you." He then turned to Jemalla, resting a heavenly gauntlet upon her shoulder. "I told you I would guide you, even at your darkest hour." The sword she once wielded, now held in the hands of its true owner, began to shift. Blazing light roared into life around the blade, its size and wicked edge growing and taking on an almost organic crystalline shape. "I did not forsake my promise. And you've no need of my sword any longer."

Jemalla gasped, "Az-Azurewrath? The fabled weapon of Justice itself..." she whispered in awe.

"I would not charge you with this duty, knowing what blood you may need shed, and expect you to shoulder this burden alone", he said as he turned, dissapearing behind the fortress walls. We see him with growing frequency, ghosting through and checking on our bastion. I believe the day draws near that this battle might finally come to a close. Whether through my death or the victory of others, I know I will have done my part. We walked and battled to forge this last bastion, but it was Torono and Analla who built it. It is the duty of those who follow to make their sacrifice into victory. It is the duty of those who remain to keep this...the Pandemonium Fortress...to ensure those that follow can enact the Justice so richly deserved. And be they deserving of Justice's wrath, then may they feel the blessing and the curse that is the right to wield Azurewrath.
-Halbu

Cleaned up a bit.

This post was edited by Brigga on Dec 22 2015 07:37pm
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Dec 23 2015 01:28am
Quote
Quote (CastorTroy @ Sat, 21 Jun 2008, 17:37)

When I was 15 my girlfriend at the time was finally ready to have sex. I, as one might expect of a 15 year old, was excited. Neither hell nor high water was going to stand between me and my final destination.
I get ready for the night, trim everything up, shower extra well. Unfortunately there was also an issue. I have a digestional disorder that sometimes cause my shit to become large and quite solid while still inside me. I wasn't aware it was a treatable problem and, in fact, just thought everyone had to deal with the equivalent of anal kidney stones. I bring this up because I had a mighty one which had been loaded into the gun for several days.

Let me set the scene. Her parents are away. We have her house to ourselves. She was always a little kinky so she demands we do it in her parents bed.

I walk in to a candle holocaust. She's been working on this all day apparently, and its as bright as high noon in there with the lights off. Which is good, because she proceeds to do a sweet, sexy little dance for me. At 16, she was AMAZING. For those of you who never experienced a female at that age, I pity the fool.

Now I'm sitting on the bed, watching this dance. I smile and tell her how good she looks. Unfortunately, most of my attention is focused on the dull throbbing from my sphincter and the large amount of intestinal discomfort associated with not dropping duce in days. But somehow I still get hard and we go to town.

She starts out on top, then we switch. I bend her over the bed, and I even smack her ass (a ballsy move at the time, but she loved it). Due to my built up distraction, I last for what seems like FOREVER. She can't stop moaning and telling me how good it feels, and then she says what every man wants to hear "I want to make you go in my mouth." I fuckin love women.

So she goes down on me. She was always average at best in the head department but at least she tried. She pops my cock out of her mouth long enough to look up at me and say "tell me if you like this". Then I feel it.

She stuck her finger up my ass.

My brain hits the panic switch and every muscle in my entire body locks up tighter than a three year old virgin. But its too late.

I take a massive, PAINFUL, PAINFUL shit, all over her parents comforter.

No, you aren't understanding. I mean large. Huge. IMMENSE. Take your largest shit and multiple it by forty-two and you'll have an idea of what flew out of me.

And gents, when I say flew, I don't mean "I pooped." I mean "projectile". I mean "hurricane force winds hitting an umbrella stand". And due to my condition, it comes out as a large, dark brown, smelly harpoon.

I know it hit her. I didn't see it. She ran screaming "OH MY GOD OHMYGODOHMYGODEEEEEWWWWWWWW" but I always imagined that, due to her position, it hit her right in the chin. Or at least the tits.

I would like to say I got up to go after her. But I heard the bathroom door shut and I just lied there. The smell hit me after a few seconds. It smelled like someone rolled a cat in shit and threw it into a tire fire. I looked down and saw, to date, the largest bowel movement I've ever heard of laying on the bed. Then I noticed the blood, and when I did, I noticed the pain.

Apparently the fact that it was so large caused it to rip my ass a little bit (thought I was bleeding from the inside. This little doctors trip the next day is what taught me of my condition). There was a small pool of blood where my ass had been. A final reminder of the exact place and moment I lost my virginity. I will treasure this memory for all my days.

I grab my shit with my hands and go to the downstairs bathroom. I throw around 1/3 into the toilet and flush, fearing any more will clog it and only add to my already significant woes.

I stand there, holding 2/3's of my biggest shit of all time, feeling a trickle of blood flow down my leg, trying to ignore the sharp pain stabbing my rectum. I find myself wishing I had a photo of this.

Anyway, I finish flushing my baby, clean off my hands, jam toilet paper between my cheeks (I skipped the bandaid) and went upstairs. I could hear my girlfriend sobbing from behind the bathroom door. I decided not to say anything to her and just keep moving. The smell in her parents room was abysmal. Its like when you take a shit and walk out of the bathroom you think "hey not so bad today," but then you walk back in to grab your magazine and go "HOLY SHIT!". It was one of those moments.

The scene is burned behind my eyelids for all time. My life. My shame. My very first time smelled like a pile of dead babies. I quickly got dressed since the heat from ten thousand candles was making the room feel more like a port-a-potty. I was aware enough to grab the comforter on my way out and drag it downstairs to their washer. Also the top and bottom sheets since the blood had leaked on through all the way to mattress. Still no sign of the GF but at this point I considered it a blessing.

I jammed in the washer with 3 loads worth of detergent and set it on spin, knowing that not even the hand of God would save these linens, let alone Tide and Snuggles.

Then I left. I avoided my GF's calls for days until she came to my house. We had a long talk about what happened. Talk being synonymous with "breaking up with me because I shit on her". And it was all over. She promised not to tell a soul and I don't THINK she ever did. She was probably as ashamed as I was about the whole deed. But I will always this happening as the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me
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Dec 24 2015 09:12pm
petered out a bit at the end as im tired and have to much to do before tomorrow to really finish it off properly. thats what i get for waiting to the last minute. oh well.

The gnarled hand tightened it's grip on the worn wooden staff as the rain continued to fall. Darkness enveloped the hut as the wizened chest rose and fell with the intake and exhalation of air; now short and quick, now deep and long and filled with satisfaction and regret. The man stood in the entrance staring out across the wharf as he often did. The heavy patter of raindrops had turned the swamp turgid and murky, a perfect match for the swirl of emotions that ran through his balding head. As he looked out over the shoddy run-down docks, he thought back to another time when they had once been great. Once upon a time, this had been a city. Once upon a time, it had been full of life. Once upon a time there had been great promise here. Now everything lay broken in shambles and only a few remained.

He thought back to when he had first come to Kurast - a young man by a different name in a different time. He could no longer remember the name he had gone by in those days, it had been so long since anyone had called him anything other than Alkor. This was not a name he had taken by choice, rather he had fallen into it as a reference to his trade as an alchemist. Ah, but that brought the memories flooding back.

After his parents had been killed in one of the many wars that tore through the fractious tribes of his homeland, he had set off on his own in search of adventure. Wanting nothing more to do with the meaningless wars and saddened by the wasteful loss of life, he had left it behind. He had heard whispers of a fabled Sword of Power called Shadowfang, and beleived that if he could but find it and bring it with him back to his homeland he might use it to end the wars and unite the tribes under a single ruler. If that ruler happened to be him, then so be it, but ultimately he didn't really care about that, he cared only to end the wars.

What he found instead, was a demand for the herb which his people traditionally smoked, a generous supply of which he had brought with him. Seldom found outside his homeland as his people were usually too busy killing each other to export it, his supply was soon exhausted. Forced to return to his homeland to procure more, he passed through Kurast on his way and knew instantly that he had found a new home. The flourishing city was ideal for his ventures. The docks provided an easy means of importing the herb and the somewhat shady wharf culture was a perfect place to sell it. All was going perfectly until his supplier disappeared.

He never did find out what happened to him, he simply never showed up with the next shipment. Presumably pirates had gotten to him, but one could never be sure. Perhaps he had simply run off. Whatever the case, Alkor, as he had already come to be known, had to come up with an alternative. It was then that he really delved into true alchemy. He had dabbled with it some here and there, intrigued by the possibilities, but now he began to research it in depth looking for alternatives which might appease his customers. He gave himself over to his studies, forsaking all else. The more he studied it the more he discovered which captured his attention.

From then on he began selling wider variety of potions. Energy potions and potions to cure poisons as well potions of warmth. On occasion he mixed specialty potions as well, depending on the needs of his customers and available ingredients. And while he still had a love for the herb of his homeland, obtaining it whenever able, alchemy remained his one true love.

The man shook his head as the memories faded, as if to clear his head of unwanted objects clinging to it. His had been a good life. Though he had never achieved his goal of uniting his homeland, he could count success in other ways, an accomplishment which few could lay claim to. He sighed and shifted his position once more. With the downfall of Kurast wrought by Mephisto much of the population had fled or been killed. Business was slow, yet he remained in the doorway of his modest hut, ever vigilant for the person to whom he might sell his wares.

This post was edited by ReturnFormer on Dec 24 2015 09:27pm
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Dec 27 2015 03:02am
By Bronco30:

Quote
The cold rain batted down with the force of a thousand sharp needles onto the faces of the two hooded men. They were surrounded by a dark, exceedingly dense forest which, oddly, seemed to not offer much shelter from the raging storm. “Oy, come av’ a look at this, mate,” the larger hooded figure bellowed out to his companion. He was huddled down, on one knee, peering out into the distance at two dark figures. Without batting an eyelash the second man, who was much smaller in height yet larger in girth came waddling over at the behest of his companion. “What d’ya think it is?” he said. The tall man pulled back his dark hood so that the rain was now beading off his hair down his neck and forehead. His knee was getting tired; he shifted to the other one. The water was running down his back, it was so cold, he began to get chill bumps. As the shorter man was about to take a closer look, lightning struck overhead, illuminating the areas between the branches and trunks of the huge fiercewood trees and for a brief second, they could see.. but what was it?! One of the objects looked like a human. Perhaps a young woman, but what was that creature she was with? It couldn’t possibly be human, could it? A loud crackle from the thunder made both of the poachers jump. They tried to focus their attention back upon the area where they saw the two beings, but they were gone.


As they rode back to their tents on two sickly looking mares, they heard chains rattling in the distance. The larger man bellowed to his companion “let’s go have a look.” The two headed ever closer to Mount Arreat to investigate the noises they were hearing. As they rode through an open pass, they saw something was blocking the road. Approaching closer to the blockage in the distance, the two men chanted in unison “HEY, who goes there?” To which they received no response. Just as they were getting close enough to make out what this object actually was, they were ambushed from both sides of the passage. Ghoulish minions jumped out of the woodline from either side onto their horses and drug them to the ground with a force so hard that the mare’s necks were snapped. The men lie dying on the ground, being crushed by the immense weight of their horses. The smaller man looked up and with his last breath he saw a face. A face that will haunt him for eternity.. The face of Nihlathak, the summoner.


Nihlathak dismissed his minions to the hell that they originated from and removed the gag from Anya’s mouth, which had been there to keep her from screaming for help. He yanked her chains and growled in his solemn, dark voice, “Come on now, Anya.” As they walked away, the dark summoner turned back to the dead corpses of the mares and poachers that lie dead in the passage way and whispered some words that Anya couldn’t make out. With slight raise of his hands, which were holding the shrunken head, Homunculus, the corpses explode! Blood, flesh, and bone rain down all over the same passageway which had been as calm as the wind five minutes before. Acting as if nothing had happened, Nihlathak jerked Anya by the chains and pulled her along as they entered Mount Arreat and down into the Crystalline Passage.


Growing up as the daughter of the Harrogath Elder Aust and his wife Elora, Anya was a young alchemist who just happened upon Nihlathak’s betrayal. She discovered that Nihlathak was responsible for the death of her own father and that he had made a deal with Baal, the ultimate of all evils and Lord of Destruction. Nihlathak had given Baal the Relic of the Ancients and enabled Baal to climb to the summit of Mount Arreat without being challenged by the stout guardians of the mountain, the Ancients.


Anya had never been so cold in her life. The walls were ice, the ground as well. Anything and everything inside this mountain was ice. She was scared out of her wits of this treacherous.. thing that had taken her prisoner. As they walk the long, solemn passage, chains rattling in rhythm, neither of them uttered a word for what seemed an eternity. Anya shuddered and thought about home and about the possibility of being rescued. With the larger war going on, and everything looking so bleak, her prospects of rescue seemed miniscule. “Nihlathak, just tell me.. why? Why sell out everything you’ve known your entire life? Why betray the people you were sworn to protect as an Elder?” Anya protested. “Do not ask questions. Do not speak. You will soon be in misery for the rest of your time on the world of Sanctuary, just as I have been. Anya cries and pleads with Nihlathak to see reason and to allow her to return to her home. She tries to grasp at the small bit of humanity, still hidden deep within his old, rotting soul. It’s no use. He was too far gone. Nihlathak grabbed Anya by both arms and picked her straight up into the air. He then removed his grip and let go of her completely, yet she still levitated above him. He was using the dark magic he had learned in his years as a Necromancer, just as he had done to summon the minions that killed the poachers and to explode their corpses as a show of power to Anya.


Nihlathak closed his eyes and began chanting a ritual. Anya had begun to spin. Slowly at first but gradually it became faster and faster. She had no control over her body. Nihlathak opened his eyes and raised both of his hands. As he did, ice from the floor came up and engulfed Anya. It started at her feet and slowly moved up her legs onto her torso. As they look at one another, eye to eye, Nihlathak could sense her fear. He knew that she was cold and afraid, and yet it didn’t bother him. The ice got up to her neck and she tried to speak but it was too stiff on her vocal cords. She closed her eyes as the last bit of her body becomes numb and the ice takes hold of her fully.
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Dec 27 2015 03:20am
By dil6000

Quote
A hundred hues of red and gold and orange met and melded in the many facets of the glass spire far and above, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset.

Alkor grumbled and mumbled dark nothings into the wet air. His oversized tunic, hanging below his knees, was wet and chilly, and it clung to his browned skin. His feet hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt before, swollen and bleeding. One more hour, his father said. That was almost four hours ago. Though young, Alkor knew better than to disobey his father and to rest. The journey up the mouth of the Shadow River and through the Spider Forest was the source of more horror stories than he could remember growing up as a child. The two could not stop just anywhere; this place was alive with death in every crevice and hollow. They needed to find a place safe from the nightmares in the forest.

A sunken courtyard filled with sludge that smelled of bile stood and stagnated between the fading gleam of the spire and travelers. The stench reminded the boy of his only time herding his father’s great wildebeest herd on the outskirts of the now-distant Lut Gholein. At the time, he had not known the great difficulty in tending to so many creatures at once, and upon waking up from a long nap, found each and every one of them dead or dying, feasted on by carrion creatures and swarms of black locusts. It had smelled like iron and rain that day. The family had not the money to continue their lives in the desert.

Finally, thought Alkor. Finally, I can rest. Though young and flourishing, even the metropolis of Kurast had its ancient parts. Hundreds of decrepit temples dotted the swampy landscape of the forest and beyond, old and abandoned since the fall of the empire. An old door of rotten teak looked like it was in its last moments of life, hanging by a breath on rusted hinges. Amazing. The glass above is still intact, thought Alkor. Old magic. It must have been enchanted hundreds of years ago.

There was no way around the pool of muck. “Hold this,” his father commanded, shoving his makeshift walking stick he had found into his soft hands. It was a trident, an old frog spear, with three thorny prongs arranged in such a way that they looked like the bent legs of a dying spider.

The old man set his rucksack down against a crumbling wall of cobbles, heavy with life necessities, and pulled his sword from the bright green sash around his waist. Polished and sharp, the scimitar shined bright even in the diffused light of the waning afternoon. A family heirloom, the blade was unlike any other; decorated with barbs and a sharp tooth on its backside, the curved blade of Blood Crescent could leave any man or creature bleeding and gurgling for mercy with one slice.

Alkor’s father stepped gingerly into the water, nearly falling as the ooze crested over his belt. A matt of vines and roots tugged at his ankles as he progressed, one slow step at a time. After reaching the other side, the old man pushed the door open wide. The hall beyond was dark, but he was surprised to find it empty of overgrowth.

“Come, son. Your turn,” he commanded his son. “Bring the pack. Hold it above your head. You must keep the torches dry.”

The pack felt nearly as heavy as the scrawny young man as he struggled to hold it against his chest. He set the spear against a wall, unable to carry it along with the gear.

The water felt more like syrup, thick with decay. Sliding across its floor of sludge, each step grew harder as more vines knotted around his thighs. He reached the center of the courtyard, marked by a plain obelisk with patterns of an old language weathering up its stone. Breathing hard and tired, he pinned the pack between himself and the stone to rest for a moment.

A gurgling stirred the water behind him.

“Son, move! There’s something in the water,” his father’s voice was urgent.

Alkor shouldered the pack and awkwardly struggled toward his father with the grace of a wingless bird, constantly waddling and sinking with every step.

“Drop it! Drop it and run, Alkor,” his father shouted.

The sudden loss of weight imbalanced the young Alkor and he stumbled forward, submerging fully into the darkness. He wasn’t sure if he had slipped out of the leather straps or if they had been pulled off his body.


-------------


“Son,” Alkor heard faintly, as if from far away.

He was lying against a wall and began to shiver as soon as he understood where he was. The door was almost closed but Alkor could see the courtyard beyond. It was dark outside. A moment of confusion swept over him as he questioned how he could see outside or his father, even. The man kneeling over him held a sword, but no torch. They are lost in the water. The walls, the man’s face, sword, Alkor’s own dirtied hands; everything had a sickly green glow about it. Alkor soon realized the source came from further in the temple.

“What happened?” Alkor asked, “What was that?”

“I don’t know. A creature was in the water. A giant frog, it looked like. It pinned you under the water but I sliced it pretty good. I think it ran off.” His father said, smiling to his sword for half a heartbeat.

“Our food is gone.” He suddenly sounded weak. “I’m not sure how far we have left to Kurast.”

“I don’t…” he paused and looked toward whatever was emanating the green glow, “I don’t know if we can go any further.”

He walked to the door and yanked and pushed on the rotten wood. “It closed easily enough,” he paused, regaining his breath, “but now it won’t budge. It’s stuck. We’re trapped in here.”

Over the next few minutes the two did their best to remove the sludge from Alkor’s clothes and hair. It left a dullness that made him look gray and dead in the odd light. The two decided to move further into the temple after failing to open the door together.

The temple was not large, but the two soon noticed themselves becoming unnaturally warm as they came upon its center.

“Something old must still be burning,” his father reasoned, equally confused by the heat.

They descended an old and slick staircase of stone. The still air grew hotter still. They opened an inner door and found the source of the light and heat to be a statue in the middle of a circular chamber.

At first, the statue looked to be that of an angel; stone wings, now crumbled and dust, rose out from a flowing cloak which hid much of its features. On first glance, the stone face looked like it was shouting cries of battle, but the sharp bones and fangs of its face looked like that of a demon. Most interestingly, the creature held what looked to be a sword made from glass, green and huge. It was almost twice as long as his father’s sword.

“What is this place…” his father trailed off. He fingered the blade cautiously, but pulled away quickly as it burned his fingertips.
He winced slightly at first, then grabbed his wrist in panic. The burning traveled quickly up his arm. The green sword glowed a bit brighter, hungry.

“Father? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Alkor asked, confused and panicked.

His arm felt of fire. “A demonblade,” his father gasped. “Something forged by the devil to slay angels.”

His mind clicked. Alkor had read about demonblades in the Palace Library.

Shadowfang.

“Father. You have to destroy it. It… tasted you. It’s feeding off of you.”

His father looked at him, concerned. Defeated. He drew Blood Crescent, hacking slow and calculated at the statue’s wings, then faster and with a maddening rage. Sparks and chips of weak rock flew away. He struck the cruel demonblade. The scimitar dented. He struck again. The heirloom broke off at the hilt.

His father shook his head, “I cannot. You…” He trailed off, looking at his son. The man’s strength fell from him as his rage subsided. He slumped to the floor below the statue, uncaring about the shards of razor-sharp blade slicing into his knees.

“Find Ormus, my son. He will know...” His voice was barely a whisper.

Shadowfang felt hungry.

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Dec 28 2015 02:26am
First place: Dil6000
Second place: Brigga
Third place: Bronco30
Fourth place: xKlakabush
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Dec 29 2015 02:44am
Quote (xKlakabush @ Dec 8 2015 02:52am)
Originally I just wanted to write a short story about Alkor and the Amulet of Kul'yeh but it turned into this:

High Noon – a Diablo showdown

It was not always like this. Alkor wheezed as he stood atop the ramparts of the Kurast metropolis. The Swirling Crystal of Tal Rasha continued its slow, buzzing hum as he held it in his left hand. Slow drips of blood fell to the ground from the fresh wound on his hip as he surveyed the vast area of abandoned temples. The smell of death was still in the air. The sun was the middle of its majestic path along the noon horizon and its rays pierced his sweaty brow. But he could not give up yet. The Amulet of Kul’yeh was surely within his grasp now.

* * *

It was not always like this. A younger life revealed the life of a scholar, a law abiding citizen. Alkor had studied at the High Monastery of the Zakarum just two years ago. He was sure to begin his life as one of the Elected. All of his spells were developed, all his incantations approved by the High Council. His mentor, Ormus the Wise, had all but assured him that he would be accepted to the Order. Alkor was the first from his family in the sleepy city of Lut Gholein to attend the High Monastery. Back home, his family was quietly buzzing with excitement. They could not believe that their only son would climb so high in the world. Lycander had always said he had greatness in him, but this was beyond anyone’s dream. Alkor had truly surpassed all expectations. He would be the toast of the town for many years, or so they thought.

As he panted and attempted to cast a healing spell on his bleeding limb, he tried to understand how he came to be in this situation, atop the shrine of the Ruined Temple, surrounded by the decaying smell of Zealots, Hierophants, and whatever beasts the jungles of Kurast could throw at him. How could he have strayed so far? Deckard Cain. Just the thought of those words caused a burning in his heart, a ringing in his ears that reminded him of his foolish naivety. How could that old fool have convinced him to do all this? It was not long ago that the old prophet appeared in the bazaars of Kurast. He was known in the old city, a kind of old hermit with tall tales who misled the youth. Alkor remembers the first he spoke to the man, who was now but a shadow figure of greed in his crumbling world.
It was in the rustic bazaar of the Lower Kurast underworld that Cain and Alkor first met. Most of the pupils of the high monastery avoided the place, calling it a “hive of scum and villany,” but that would not deter Alkor. Alkor took pride in his working class roots, and the pungent smell and rustic colors of the long hallways and empty dungeons always gave him a sense of homeliness and comfort that the pristine halls of the Kurast temple never could. The patrons; wayward travelers, merchants, scum, shared stories of the travels far beyond anything a member of the Elected could ever share. The ale and the fire was warm and comforting, and the loose women of the bazaar shot glances and wore outfits far more captivating than any of the Temple Virgins. Perhaps in hindsight it is not a surprise that Alkor’s path was less than perfect.

* * *

It was a Thursday just like any other, when Alkor was playing cards with the patrons who stumbled in. A red-haired Druid, with a dire wolf at his side and a raven on his shoulder stroked his beard by the firelight as he pondered his next move. Across from Alkor sat a mighty Paladin, clad in an armor, stopping for a night before continuing his quest for a mighty treasure. The fourth player was Natalya, the bartender for the bazaar. Alkor was not the only student at the monastery who came to the bazaar with the hopes of catching her eye. Her leather outfit clung tight on her body, accentuating every aspect of her full figure. Her brown hair, flowing past her shoulders to the mid of her back, sparkled in the light of the fire like stars in the evening sky. Her blue eyes glowed like the brightest shard of the Worldstone, filling anyone who looked at them with radiance. Her high heels made a slight click as she strode across the bazaar floor, as tall as any of the women of Harrogath. She smiled coyly as she surveyed the table and contemplated her next move in the game. She knew most of the clients in the bazaar today, the red-haired Druid an old acquaintance, but the appearance of this Paladin was a pleasant surprise to her. She could not help but inquire who he was.

“I am but a common traveler. My name… is Platypus” said the Paladin.

“A common travelver? I think not. I know the Herald of Zakarum when I see it!” said Natalya, pointing to the massive shield that Platypus was holding. “You must be a Paladin!” Natalya said, her tone of voice and the sparkle in her eye betraying a childish excitement, an excitement that Alkor always wished he could evoke.

“I suppose so” said Platypus “but I wish my journey through Kurast to be carried out in silence, for I am on a mission best carried out in a clandestine manner”

Natalya leaned in closer to him, her chest thrust out forwards. Alkor looked on, envious of the attention the Paladin was receiving. Natalya’s eyes gleamed with curiosity and approval.

“I seek the Amulet of Kul’yeh” continued the Paladin. The Druid rolled his eyes, but Natalya looked on, eager as ever.

Alkor did not know what to make of it. Of course he had heard of the amulet in his studies at the monastery, like any of his classmates. He knew of the immense power and knowledge that it imparted on its wearer. He could recount as well as anyone the tales of the Great Mage Kul’yeh, whose scholarship and wisdom gave him a power over the world that few had matched. It was all but compulsory for the aspiring Elected to learn of how Kul’yeh had fought against the Prime Evils in time immemorial. It was said that Kul’yeh’s mastery of the elements was so strong, that he could conjure might blizzards to smite his enemies. When the unlucky foes of Kul’yeh were stunned by these hails of ice and snow, he would make meteors rain upon them, creating craters in the earth that would last until the ending of the world. There was once a time when Kul’yeh stood alone against Baal, Lord of Destruction, upon the plains of Harrogath, defending the mortal realms from the tyranny of the Three. Yet his power could not be broken by strength of magic or witchcraft. It was only when Mephisto, Lord of Hatred managed to sedate him and steal his Amulet that Kul’yeh was defeated. With his amulet gone, Kul’yeh’s power was broken. He was vanquished by the Three, and their anger and wrath was so great that they burned his corpse into ashes and strew the ashes into the four corners of the world. The Zakarum had managed to find his ashes and reconstitute them into a mighty relic, but the Amulet of Kul’yeh was never found.

“That’s a bunch of nonsense” said Alkor. “Kul’yeh’s amulet was lost once he was defeated by the Three, everyone knows this. You’re just on a fool’s errand.”

“Is that so?” Platypus snapped. “What would a wanna-be priest of the Order know about this? I’ve been slaying Venom Lords since you wore diapers, boy.”

The Druid let out a stifled laugh before downing another ale. Alkor went slightly red in the ears, like he did when he could not recount the Seven Elements during one of Ormus’s seminars. Once the Druid was done his ale, he showed his hand – a Full Zakarum (two priests and three crystals) – and with a huge grin he collected the money everyone had on the table.

“Oh well. Why don’t I tell you more about Kul’yeh’s amulet?” Platypus smiled at Natalya and put his hand on her elbow. The two of them left the table and moved to the bar, leaving Alkor alone with this slightly malodorous Druid at the table. The red haired man let out a loud belch and started petting his wolf, then he proceeded to pay his tab and left the bazaar. Alkor was left alone, looking at Natalya as she warmed up to that arrogant Paladin at the bar.

“Son, it’s true what he says” a grizzled voice spoke out from Alkor’s left side. A wizened old man sat down at the table. This man had a large grey beard that covered most of his face. From in between the tufts of grey hair that hung from his head, Alkor could make out two small, piercing blue eyes. The man had a round, friendly face, a very large nose, and he put his two large hands on the table. He had a quiet demeanor, his haggled appearance giving the impression of a man who has seen enough of the world to no longer be surprised by anything.

This man was Deckard Cain. Alkor had heard of him, who hadn’t, but he had never spoken to Cain before. Cain continued on, his way with words capturing young Alkor’s mind with thoughts of glory and honor. He spoke of the Amulet, and the immense power that it bestows. He spoke also of wealthy traders in the West who would give a fortune for whoever could recover the relic. Alkor was enchanted. All he could imagine was the Amulet around his neck, Natalya beaming at him as he entered the bazaar victorious.

“What must I do to find it?” asked Alkor hurriedly.

“It will not be simple. The location of the Amulet may only be found in the high archives of Travincal. And even then, we can not be sure. Many of the Zakarum Order have set out to find it before, and none have succeeded. I myself spent near half a decade on this quest, but without the access to the Travincal archives, I was not successful. Yet I have reason to believe that Toorc Icefist was the last person to know the location of the amulet, and he translated all knowledge of its location into an ancient Horadric dialect before his overthrow by Bartuc the Bloody and the rest of the High Council.”

“Well, access to the Travincal archives won’t be easy! No one but the Elected are allowed to go there, and it will be over a year before my thesis A Novel Potion to Restore Stamina is finished and accepted!” protested Alkor.

“Get real! If I wanted to, I could write a paper on stamina potions and get accepted myself. The point is, as a student in the high monastery, it would not take much for you to “accidentally” stumble upon the high archives and bring me what I need. Then I will translate it and we can split the loot once we sell it. I know of a wealthy blacksmith named Charsi who would be willing to pay as much as 35,000 gold coins for it.”

“If I’m the one going to put my career on the line, I want at least 25,000” bargained Alkor. That would at least cover the tuition at the Lut Gholein Academy if he got in trouble for all of this. It still didn’t sound like a good deal, but his mind was made up, there was no turning back now.

* * *

Alkor struggled to mask his steps in the main Atrium of the temple. He entered the hidden archives of Travincal and was able to avoid the Zealots that guarded the sealed doors. The zealots were mere brutes who the Zakarum had hired for lesser tasks, so fooling them was no great feat. Alkor was beyond himself when he went to the lower level and found himself in “The Personal Record of Toorc Icefist, seventeeth High Mage of the Zakarum Order. “

This was a room unlike no other. Hierophant trophies hung from the walls and there were magic amulets strewn about the room. A small box covered in elaborated golden writing was sitting on a desk. Alkor though this must be it, but when he opened it, he saw in it instead the Stone of Jordan, one of the most valued relics of the ancient world. He left it in its place, fearing that if he were caught with this in Kurast they would surely know where it came from. He saw a shelf with scores of old parchments. Most were either detailing scientific experiments of the day or inventory data. Inbetween “Of the ability of thawing potions to overcome Frozen Orb” and “Decrepify: Uses and misuses” he saw a strange parchment, written in a different dialect from all the others. He compared it to the Horadric script that Deckard Cain gave him as an example. It was a good match. He took the parchment and ran out of the archive.

Alkor ran up the winding stairs of the temple as fast as he could, just waiting to get past the anti-teleportation spells that prevented anyone from breaking in or out of the compound. Once he was clear of that barrier he could get as far away from the temple as he needed. He continued down the long hallways of the temple when he overheard footsteps approaching. He quickly ducked into a side corridor before he put out his torch and continued into the darkness. He slowed down to conceal his whereabouts. As he continued, he began hearing a slow, deep, rasping breath that was coming ever closer. Alkor tried to lose his pursuer, but the breathing came ever closer. Fear gripped him. He knew who was coming, so he pulled out Tal Rasha’s Swirling Crystal and created a beam of light around him to guide his path. He saw that the exit was near and he ran to it, but before his could leave, a fell voice was in the air.

“Stop!” the voice commanded.
Alkor turned around, and just a few meters before him was none another than Bartuc the Bloody, eighteenth High Mage of the Zakarum Order. Bartuc loomed above him, eight feet tall, with spikes emanating from his ghastly body. He wore a red cape, draped across his right shoulder. On his left shoulder lay a mighty pauldron with the mark of the Elected upon it. Bartuc was as powerful as he was feared, and it seemed the air itself around him was colder by his mere presence.

“One does not simply walk into Travincal” he proclaimed. “You will surrender what you have taken, and you will be expelled from the high monastery for this!”

“Never!” Responded Alkor “I know what you did to Toorc Icefist, I will not surrender to a tyrant like you!”

Alkor blasted a fireball at Bartuc, who parried it easily. Bartuc summoned Hydras – great snakes which rose from the ground to spray fire at Alkor, draining him of the Energy Shield he cast in the last second. Alkor tried to teleport out of range, but the spells inside the compound prevented this spell from working. He cast a frozen orb which sprayed ice across the hallway, taming the hydras. The flame that wreathed their bodies was extinguished and they fell stiff to the ground. Still, Bartuc was unfazed and he charged at Alkor, swinging with cut-throat claws that were sure to leave open wounds. Alkor stumbled after a blow to his hip and he fell, but he realized he could make a run for it and reach the outside of the compound and teleport away. Before he did, however, Bartuc cast his Mark upon Alkor, labelling him as an enemy for all the Zealots and Hierophants that guard Kurast. After Alkor stepped outside the compound threshold, one gentle hum of the teleportation spell and he was back in Deckard Cain’s tent in the main city.

* * *

Cain spent hours poring over the parchment that Alkor delivered. Alkor spent those hours agonizing about the repercussions of what he had done – now that the Mark was upon him, there was no way he could go back to the high monastery. Was 25,000 gold really worth it? And he didn’t even have the amulet yet! This was starting to seem like a worse deal by the minute. In the depths of his despair, Cain raised his scratchy voice.

“I have finished the translation!” said Cain. “On the midsummer solstice, when Solaris is at it’s peak, look upon the highest of Old Kurast and ye shall have the secret of Kul’Yeh within your grasp

“Incredible! That must mean the Ruined Temple! It has been in Kurast all this time!?!? And the midsummer solstice?? We only have two days!” Alkor was beyond himself. Perhaps things would work out for the better in the end!

Alkor spent the two days preparing in Cain’s tent. Cain was able to identify magic items free of charge, which Alkor used to his full advantage to swindle deals in the Kurast Bazaar. He made sure to avoid going near Old Kurast or the high monastery for fear of the Zealots and the High Council. With Cain’s help he was able to repair his old equipment, load up on mana potions and soon he was on his way.

He arrived at the gates of Old Kurast on the morning of the solstice, with the sun already making its way across the early sky. He began walking cautiously, but Zealots were seemingly drawn to his presence due to the mark. They charged at him with scythes in hand, with Hierophants in the background conjuring lightning and thunder form the sky. Alkor swatted aside the Zealots with his well-learned fire spells. The bodies of zealots piled up as he made his way to the Ruined Temple, his fireballs scorching the earth as he went. He reached the top level of the temple, and crossed the ramparts that led to the very peak. A score of zealots were in pursuit, but Alkor was sure to reach the peak. As he did, he saw something glimmering in the sunlight.
He ran up to it, and sure enough, there it was. A multitude of colors reflected off the beautiful amulet, the sunlight reflecting off it and producing seemingly kaleidoscopic images. For a brief moment Alkor stood still, mystified, looking at the amulet. He moved forward to grab it and immediately felt a surge of power through his hands – he felt as if all of his skills were more learned, as if his strength and vitality could increase in a split second by simply putting this amulet across his neck. As he did, he felt a pair of footsteps approach him from across the ramparts.

“Well well” said a deep, commanding voice. “You aren’t as useless as you look. Did you think you could eavesdrop on me and steal my prize? I am sent here by the Zakarum themselves, and you will hand it over!” commanded Platypus, appearing in full armor, his Archon Plate reflecting the sunlight in a brilliant haze.

“So how much did Bartuc agree to pay you? No matter, because you won’t make it out to claim your prize!” retorted Alkor

Platypus didn’t respond. He drew a crystal sword and raised it into the air, issuing a call to arms to all the nearby zealots. He then pulled out his scepter and began rushing across the ramparts together with his group of zealots.

With the full glow of Tal Rasha’s scepter Alkor let loose a barrage of fireballs across the ramparts, wreaking havoc on the myriad of zealots that came his way. Still, Platypus was not to be undone. His shield of Zakarum shone under the midday sun, as he deflected and smote away Alkor’s fireballs with ease. He raised his scepter into the air and a powerful blast of lightning hit Alkor from the sky, piercing his energy shield and knocking him to the ground. Alkor was stunned but he got up before Platypus could charge at him. Alkor raised a fierce wall of fire across the Kurast temple, preventing Platypus from crossing. Alkor brought down a mighty meteor from the sky, and when dust rose all over the Kurast landscape, he was sure that he had vanquished his foe. Yet from the crater that he created, Platypus charged straight through the firewall and into Alkor’s shield. Alkor’s Viscretuant broke into fragments as he reeled from this sudden blow. Disoriented, he had no choice but to teleport to the other side of the city. He turned past one of the grey stone buildings, when he heard the familiar humming noise of the teleportation spell again.

He could not believe it! Platypus had teleported right in front of him, and was once again charging at him! How could this Paladin have learned the hidden skill of teleportation? Alkor had no choice but to leap away yet again, wary of the Paladin that was surely on his trail. What followed was a whirlwind across the entire kurast landscape: the two warriors never stood still as they chased each other across the city, creating havoc as they went. The earth was filled with craters where Platypus smote his scepter, and the ash from Alkor’s meteors and fireballs blanketed the sky in a dark-grey haze. The Amulet of Kul’yeh shone across Alkor’s neck as it imbued him with the Mana that he needed to continue his battle with this great foe. He switched between fire and thunder and ice, but Platypus withstood his battery all the same. Their titanic struggle continued against the backdrop of the abandoned Kurast temples, a blur of energy and color as the fire and ice from Alkor’s orb sprayed across the dull grey temples where they fought.

As Platypus continued to batter Alkor from the sky and the ground, Alkor reeled and needed to think of something fast before his powers waned once and for all. Desperate, he recalled his teachings from Ormus and set up a clever trap. He cast a meteor on top of one of the ruined temples, and right before it was due to hit, he teleported in the middle of the blast zone. Platypus, caught in a furious rage, teleported on top of Alkor, ready to finish him with a final blow. Yet Alkor managed to escape in the last second, and the meteor hit Platypus squarely on the head. He fell to the ground, his scepter at his side. As Alkor walked closer, he noticed that the meteor sheared Platypus’s left ear off. Alkor wasn’t sure why, but he took the Paladin’s ear and walked back to the bazaar, waiting for a heroes’ welcome and a rematch in cards with the red-haired Druid.


Did anyone read fhis?
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Dec 30 2015 08:32am
Quote (cbghas @ Dec 29 2015 02:44am)
Did anyone read fhis?


Why, did you like it? :)
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Jan 2 2016 03:28pm
20 at it
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