Avarren

Rise the Redeemers

Chaos ensues as the Crusaders are beginning to make an appearance. The loathing that exists between the Infernal and the Redeemers is palpable, and so very delicious to me. I cannot wait to see what happens when the battles begin, especially now that Dark Liege is aware of the Undead Lord's plans for his throne.

The Undead Tower, chipped away in brittle fragment betwixt a mass of forces, enemies drawn to them from their past actions. Even more amusing is the fact that these forces do not much get along amongst each other either, opening the possibilities to a melee of anarchic death and destruction.

Rest assured, I shall be certain to attend, entice, promote, and connive further circumstances to my own ends. What those are... are none of your concern, yet.

The Intrigue of the Prelude

The cowl lifts but a fraction as Avarren's attention raptly locks upon the figure exiting the citadel, enough to reveal his glistening eyes, a pale yellow, touched with swirling specks of green, the slightest traces of madness tweaking the corners into a blinkless stare. A permenent, wide grin creases a corrupt face, erupting in uncontrollable, hyenaish mirth that he reflexively muffles with a billowing scarf that swallows all sound. Wrapped in a shroud of nebulous cloth, nary a trace of his body is seen, though his proportions indicate he is of smallish stature... obviously no bigger than a five year old human... were he human.

The power courses through him. Exhileratingly, maddeningly. His shoulders rock up and down in the throes of his muffled laughter as he watches the Undead Lord's manservant direct the cleanup of offal about the Citadel. The scavengers are run off, slinking back to the forest, peering on the loss of their banquet with hunger filled eyes and poignant sorrowful howls and caws.

Snorting derisively at the disgusting beasts, Avarren glides past the milling undead, unseen, unnoticed, undetectable. He pauses near the butler, a million devious plots and ploys playing through his mind, each precipitating its own laugh, before he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and moves on.

Into the very depths of the den of the Undead Lord he traverses, taking stock of the amassing troops, the sheer number of dead being raised by necromancers, the neophyte vampires lingering in the shadows awaiting the call of the dread master. Weaponry is being prepared. War looms upon the horizon. He laughs again, its just too deliciously intoxicating for him to take it all in. It draws him, like a moth to flame, he feeds upon it... the intrigue... the tense energy... the emotions of the place swirl, unseen by the inhabitants... tantalizing.

"Covetous of a title." *laugh* His weaselish voice sidles through the interior of his own mind as he shakes his head slightly. "Traitors... traitors... and more traitors in the midst." Gliding onward and ever inward, through the depths of the hall, he goes, unseen, unknown, even by the Demon Lord himself, mentally ticking off figures and statistics like an abacus.

Avarren's malicious thoughts tickle at his mind, prompting action, a plan of sorts takes form. His impromptu raid finished... he cannot help but snicker, shifting like the falling grains of sand through a crack in the wall and away, as formless as a shadow.

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Lightning strikes across the sky as the small figure appears at the gates of the great castle. An ominous sign, to be certain, perhaps of wicked portents, ill meaning designs set in motion. Approaching the gates, the figure whispers in a conniving voice to the guards, "I have information for the Dark Liege." His voice grating to hear, like nails raked across slate. Supplicating himself appropriately, he hides a wide grin and muffles a laugh.

Icy Trek across the Mount

The screams of the wounded are disconcertingly confusing, blending with the raging ice laden wind. Sheets of ice and sleet bounce from Mandolus' face and woolen cap. The thick snows make traversing the meager ledge precarious at best, which is likely why the nightmarish beasts chose to ambush them here. Pained eyes, stung by the biting hail and the endless squinting against the bitter wind and blinding sun glare against the snow, sweep the blizzard swept sky. "THERE!" Mandolus screams to make himself heard above the roar of the wind, "IT'S COMING BACK!"

A dark speck materializes against the raging white backdrop of the polar sky. Growing larger and larger, advancing quickly. The peryton wheels through the air, its raucous screech grating the nerves, heard well above the storm, and making the hair on the back of Mandolus neck to stand up. Dragging his snow laden feet quickly through the deep dunes to better place himself in a position to strike, Mandolus irritatingly casts a glare at the soldiers confusedly milling nearby. "It's coming back, Sentinels, form up. There.", he points emphatically at the quickly approaching beast, "THERE DAMN YOU!" Quickly he throws himself behind a sleet covered boulder, muttering a few arcane syllables under his breath.

The remaining Sentinels rush forward, finally recognizing the threat, forming a wall of steel and flesh betwixt the raging beast and the Tabernacle lorists.

Sweeping across their ranks, the abomination drags one soldier from the ledge, his screams echoing up from his long fall down the side of the mountain. The peryton glides quickly beyond reach of their weapons, the glint of it's malevolent eyes clearly displaying it's intentions to swing back about and launch another attack. Over their heads a blazing arc of mystical energy pulsates, crashing into the peryton, causing it to grow confused in its flight and crash to the ground like a leaden stone. Dirt and snow cascades through the air at the force of its impact, the monster weakly rises upon its eagle taloned feet and shakes it's stag head in confusion.

"Forward for the kill!" screams the captain, his arm sweeping forward to throw a hand axe. The momentum of the weapon causes it to revolve end over end before burying with an audible thud in the left wing of the peryton. The beast shrieks wildly and begin thrashing about with its talons, raking many of the men that stray to close.

Mandolus stands, eyeing the beast with determination, a prayer slipping from his lips, the miracle unfolding before his eyes. The air grows colder, ice builds about the struggling beast until its movements become sluggish, slowed, then halted. Its flesh slowly takes on a bluish tint until not even the monster's breath can be seen escaping its snout. "Quickly, hack that thing to pieces ere it devises a means to get out of that!" he commands, casting his long scarf across his mouth and plunging his frostbitten hands into his cloak.

He trudges back against the far wall, listening intently as the soldiers hack and hammer away at the frozen beast. Already, the snow has begun to cover the deep tracks that he and the soldiers made on their way to the edge of the precipice. It won't be long ere the blizzard completely blocks off the whole ledge with ice and snow. Before him, within the meager glow of lanterns and torches, the wounded are arrayed.

"Nikola, how fare the wounded?" Mandolus asks quietly, placing a hand upon the shoulder of his laboring compatriot. "I'm afraid that the attack was quite devastating on the forces of the Sentinels. I haven't the means to treat these men in this place. The exposure alone can kill a healthy man here, much less a man gravely wounded by those monstrosities." Nikola glances backward, as if reminded of the creatures which caused the current strain of maladies to befall the searchers. "What say you on the disposition of the remainder of the beasts?"

Mandolus grits his teeth, "I'm afraid we have lost a number of more men, but we were able to eliminate the last of the beasts just now." He wrings his trembling hands beneath his heavy cloak, unsure if it is a symptom of the extreme cold or the recent shock of activities that have occurred.

"We shouldn't linger here. Carnage such as this will draw more unwanted attention." Nikola whispers, his comment nearly lost in the throes of the storm. "We need to continue on. We are just too close to give up now."

Upward and onward. Mandolus looks up to the heights of the mountain, where the lone peak is shielded by the snow laden clouds. "Goddess grant that the chamber spoken of exists on this dread place."

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"I see. I have been deceived." His voice echoes.

"You see nothing! The all seeing Oracle, yet, you never foresaw this instance in Fate did you?" laughter erupts, disrupting the roiling fog.

"Don't get him riled up again, we need him pliable." squeeks another voice.

"You can't hold me here forever." he weakly answers.

Location Imparted, Trek Departed

Within a dream the answer came to them both, the loving purr of a kitten followed by the glowing eyes of a cat appearing before their mind's eye. Unfolding like myst, the knowledge was imparted in bits and pieces.

A dread lich, unknown to this world, now dust. The trials of Zayne and the Tabernacle in their search through the Underdark city of the drow. A decaying book full of dark necrotic arcana. The dread sigils of Necros declaring the means of opening the border to Chaos. The wind swept, ice covered peak of Mount Caelestistelum. A long forgotten chamber.

With a start, they awaken, simultaneously. Quickly gathering their equipment, Nikola and Mandolus make ready for their long trek, a trek with an end finally in sight. "Sentinels, to arms and prepare to march!" Shading their eyes against the muggy heat and waves of bugs buzzing about in Amazonia humidity, their eyes sweep to the southern pole, to a chilling and freezing environ filled with dangers and further mystery.

"We have the means for opening the door. We have but to ascertain a way of securing his capture safely." intones Mandolus, his gaze peering knowingly at Nikola. "We have time, brother, the mysteries of the arcana are known to the Goddess, a way shall be made clear in due time." responds Nikola hefting a walking staff and smiling with determination. "Soon. This trek shall be completed."

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The incessant laughter fills the foggy landscape, originating from nowhere, everywhere. Gone are the moments of lucidity. Gone is the sense of identity. "At last, he has succumbed!" gloats an insidious voice. "It was inevitable.", answers a timid, weasellish whisper. The fog swirls and eddies, the passage of giant wings covered from sight.

Prisoner of the NetherRealms

(Continuing from Purrs from the Kitten Goddess)

The darkness is foreboding, a cloying scent of rotting flesh and unrestrained madness drip from the miasma filled air. Eddies of sickly fog swirl and lazily drift about the nightmares haunting the ever-present night. Screams permeate the landscape, gutteral squalls of horror that deafen the ear with the force of their timultuous cacophony. Order does not rule here. Order has no hold here. This is a realm of chaos, the nether world, a hell of sorts. There is no sense to be made. Up is down. Earth flows like water. Dogs mew like cats.

Yet...

A Figure emerges. It can just be seen through the sickly gases of the dimension, resting upon the ground amid the endless chaos, huddled, rocking. The fog closes about him, shrouding, hiding anything and everything nearby. Voices break the timeless eminations of unrestrained entropy. A discussion? A meeting? A torture session?

"One and one are two... Two and two are four... Four and four are eight... ", recites the weary prisoner, his speech timed with the repetitive motion of his rocking. Long, ratty hair shrouds his pallid face, ragged shuddering breath weezes with each pronounced syllable.

A second, weasellish voice chimes in, "Just give up. None of this matters. Give in to the nether. Allow the chaos to claim you. Find oblivion." The chaos swirls with each spoken word. The screams continue unabated.

The figure shudders, "Eight and eight are sixteen... Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two..." continuing the litany without pause, seemingly without hearing.

A third voice intrudes upon the man's vocalizations, "Pay! Make them all pay!" A psychotic laugh cuts through the tortured screams, chilling to the bone. "Kill something... anything... make it bleed! Cut... cut... cut. Itsy bitsy pieces even!" The laughter continues, sickening to hear. "I will show you the way." The voice falls ominously silent. A talon can be seen, scarring the figure's already blooded form, tracing a pattern upon his weathered skin.

Pained he continues, undaunted, "Thirty-two and thirty-two are ..."

"No escape. There is no escape for you!" Snorts the ferret voice. "Give up! Give UP!"

The fog swirls... excited by the passage of his wings before enshrouding him once more.

Now... lost to sight... unseen... yet still heard.