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Stigmata vs Sarakon
01.01.04, 11:47:20
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Post #1 (permalink) |
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Upon a waterfall he stood, a rock that jutted out and caused the water to run around it was his platform, on which he stood and looked down on to the world below. He was cloaked, his face hidden by his hood. Darkness crept from every shadow; every nook, cranny and corner, anywhere that light could not reach. The world had changed over these last two thousand years, people had come, people had gone and yet one still survived, one who had been there the whole time, defying the laws of nature, replenishing himself with mystics unknown to common folk. Death did not come for him and yet he wasn’t immortal, this man made his own way and saved his own life. He would decide when his time had come.
Darkness below that had hidden itself in shelter began to stir. It had lain there too long, untouched and unused. Still the man stood unmoving, like a rock that rested on another, waiting to the current to splash up and wash it away. The valley below was warm; a tropical temperature filled the air. That and the flowing river were what made everything grow, what made everything live and flourish. If either of these two things disappeared then not everything would be able to survive. Death would fill the air and take from life what it had worked so hard to create. Death would rule supreme and create from a haven; a baron waste land.
The man upon the falls curled his hand over his fist and closed his eyes concentrating, summoning all power to him so that he may control and change things that should never be changed, to break the order of nature with the will to destroy. Malice was his drive and cruelty his reason, hatred was his power. None survived to see him twice; he was an omen of death, but only because of his own choices, he thrived to kill and would only rest when he felt satisfied that he had caused enough misery to knock back the human race and stop them from attempting to defy him. Their fear for him kept him happy; he hated their kind even though he was one of them himself. He had cast himself out of their lives and sought only to destroy them now, to wipe out the race of men. If they feared him enough, then they would never come, their armies would never form against him and he would be free to do as he wished.
As he stood there using his power the shadows began to move. Clouds had moved across and covered the bright sun; the shadows were able to move now as they wished, the glare of the sun could no longer hold them back. They grouped together and swirled about down below in the center of the valley. They rose upwards, away from a surface on which they could lie, into an open area near to the waterfall and within voice distance of the man who stood above. He opened his eyes and looked down onto the mass of shadows and darkness. A face appeared within it formed out of grey and black shapes in the shadow.
“What can I do to help you Cassius” the shadow spoke with a calm but booming voice, like a leader of a race.
“The time has not came yet where I will need your aid in battle Turks, but I do ask of you to aid me in a search which your men would be able to do much swifter than I.” Them man, obviously named Cassius, said to the face in the shadow.
“Who is it that you search for Cassius? This being must have some power for you to be in search for him, usually you wait for your enemies to come to you”
“I do not know his name, or of what race he is, but extreme power flows in his veins, I can feel it and if you search for the soul of this power then you will know what I mean, maybe then your men may be able to find him.”
“There is no need for me to search inside my thoughts for the one you speak of, Cassius. I know of him and have fought him myself before. The battle resulted in both of our deaths. I can show you now where he will be.”
“Then take me in haste for I cannot wait around here any longer. I have had no challenge in weeks and it becomes frustrating after a while”
“I will take you at once but first I must warn you. You know how able I am in battle and I did well to destroy him even though I too fell. He his strong, far stronger than anyone you are ever likely to face in solid form, you must fight with all your strength to defeat him”
“I can tell by the way you speak of this devilry that he will not be a push over and I heed your words of warning. Thank you for this council my friend”
The two nodded to each other. Cassius raised his sword from his sheath and raised it above his head. At this command the great rock which he stood on began to rise upwards and as it did so the current quickened, causing the flow to become a torrent of rapids. The river rose above its bank and began to spill over the top. The waterfall rushed with water, more and more crashing down while the water fell closer to the shadows than the rock face behind it. It seemed that the man was trying to get himself an easier route to the shadows below, which would then become a transport for him to the challenging battle that lay ahead.
The rock that Cassius stood on top of began to bob as the water rose upwards and started to carry it. The rock moved forwards and fell from the river up top towards the one below. The strength of the current pushed the rock closer to the dark mass though and once Cassius was within a good distance he leapt from the rock towards the darkness causing the rock to be pushed into the down falling water and shoot out, smashing below on one of the side bank in the valley. As he came closer and closer towards the darkness that awaited him, the shadowy face opened its eyes wide; it had closed them before to pull the course of the river towards its dark form. When the eyes opened so too did the mouth, opening up like a gaping black hole to swallow Cassius whole.
The cloaked man did not fall out the other end of the cloud of shadow though, he was held inside. Darkness covered the mans vision, everything was black. The shadow faded away and took Cassius with it, they would now travel through the different dimensions to where this unknown challenge awaited. The cloud of shadow would have been traveling through either the nexus or the nexus worm for a quick route to the world where the force resided. Cassius however would not have even felt them moving and he would have felt as if he was perfectly still in the innards of the shadow.
As they reached their destination there was a flash of brilliant white light, Cassius thought that maybe it was too intense for the shadows to be able to stay in that place and so had faded, but once his vision came back to him, he understood what had happened. In front of Cassius stood man dressed in a full body suit of armour. His armour was blue but it was fairly similar to Cassius’, which was still hidden, apart from the spikes and jagged edges that protruded out of it. The man was tall but not quite as tall as Cassius who stood at a massive 6ft8”. The mans appearance told that he would be a worthy foe, but Cassius could feel the mans power dwelling inside of him. Even the mans sword felt powerful, bursting to get the kill.
Around him stood eight shadow warriors, all of whom bore a spear, which pointed towards the mans neck. Next to Cassius stood Turks in his shadow form, his great sword Argalchius drawn and hung down by his side. Turks walked forwards towards the man who was now in a bad situation, the shadows could not be harmed yet they could hurt as they wished. Turks looked like he knew the man, but really they had only met once before in battle.
“Hello again Sarakon, still alive eh? Shame, now my friend here will have to destroy you. Well, Sarakon, meet the undefeatable Stigmata.”
At this Cassius stood forward and cast his cloak aside showing his regal emerald green armour. He looked like a sight for sore eyes, battle ready, as strong as an ox and still ever the king of men of the past. Stigmata still had his sword in his hand and already it had begun to glow a bright green. This enemy was obviously unpredictable and the sword could feel it.
Stigmata could see from where he stood that there was a lot of immense atmosphere between Turks and Sarakon, but he did not want to get involved with it, he was here to fight his own battle and do all that he could to win. Stigmata knew that both Turks and Sarakon had returned from the dead, but he also had done so in a way, even if he had never really passed to the other side. Maybe that was his strength against these two, he had been bale to stop himself dying and defy death, did that make him stronger or just better equipped in his magic?
Stigmata took a look around where he was, they couldn’t possibly be further from life. This place looked like it had been created by some morgul creature of the night. The main part of it was just a plain of grass, though around this area stood strange sculptures. Huge spikes stuck out of the ground like a clawed hand, but there were many more than five of them. They went in an oval shape around where the group stood, coming up and curling inwards. Groups of rocks lay around their base and deformed statues of men and women stood in between the gaps of the claw like rocks. In the center of the area was a table, in the center of this table was a dip and inside that dip was a pool of blood. The table wasn’t very big and the pool took up most of it. The pool looked like it went down forever but by looking at the side part of the pool under the table; you could see that it wasn’t actually very deep at all. There was only one exit from this dark place, a gap in between two of the statues, which would soon be guarded and cornered off by Turks.
Stigmata stood quite still with his sword pointed upwards and his eyes closed, awaiting the start of this battle. Turks walked over to the exit and raised his sword, then quickly he lowered it, the shadow warrior disappeared, fading out in a cloud of black smoke, and Stigmata and Sarakon were left alone in the middle, ready to fight. Stigmata’s eyes shot open but his sword stayed where it was.
“Let the battle begin” |
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Precariously the dark knight balanced on the precipice of madness, he had put himself into isolation finding solace in his new found conscience and his reclaimed humanity, Sarakon had put himself into solitary confinement, sealed within the nexus so he could no longer hurt the world, so that he was no longer a danger to all. For countless years he slumbered there, content to drift amongst the nexus of souls with only the memories of his wife to comfort him, but the souls in Heretic stirred and the phantom blade quivered furiously. It seemed the great sword was not pleased with Sarakon's new kindness and his honourable sacrifice enraged the legions of the damned that dwelled within, they screamed and scream, a hungry roar, cries for blood, they wanted to cut down the living, to spill blood out unto the land..yet Heretic could only be truly wielded by Sarakon, their years together had inexplicably bound the two, in a sense fusing them, one could not help but think of Sarakon's favoured weapon upon hearing the knight's name and vice versa, the two were made for one another. And yet, trapped within the nexus neither could fulfil their true purpose, and this made the temper of the souls rise to dangerous heights, the entities knew what Sarakon's true purpose was for they had been right there with him in battle, they had cut down thousands of lives at Sarakon's bidding, he was a taker of live, a conquering warrior, he had merely been distracted by memories of a life lost long ago. But the souls were crafty, they knew Sarakon as well as he knew his weapon and they would bring him back into his true nature, with a unified shriek of triumph, Sarakon's torment began.
His mind was bombarded by the angry spirits that ripped through his consciousness to interrupt his dreams of his long dead wife to bring him visions of reality, Sarakon, sealed in the nexus, could only watch with wide eyes as the souls took his mind away to that day he had died all those many years ago.
From overhead he watched as he saw himself out on the battlefield on the day of the rebellion, the day the great Tarronian Empire fell. A stray arrow had hit the Dark King's mighty black stallion, and as it reared up on its legs, the King was flung violently off. The stench of spilled blood and burning flesh clung to the air, mixing with the smoke and ash that had already blackened the skies above making for a most foul odour, the stench of death was strong that day. The spectral Sarakon looked on from above as the Dark King landed perfectly after being thrown from his horse, and began cackling, laughing at the peasants around as he raised his left hand and unleashed several waves of pure kinetic energy out unto the army that had dared to face him. The powerful orbs ripped through the fields outside the Tarronian castle, carving trenches and ploughing through men. The carnage, it would have horrified any normal person, and the spectral Sarakon tried his best to be disgusted as he watched his past self massacre the peasants, yet he could not find it in himself, what he found instead was excitement, a blood lust he thought he had quelled long ago, yet it still would not be enough to bring him out of his isolation. The spectral being simply watched on in his mind, wondering what Heretic had to show him.
The King callously sneered and grinned as the blast he fired out swallowed up groups of men, instantly imbuing every single particle of their being with incredible amounts of kinetic energy, in effect making them explode, their bodies tore out from the centre under his power. As huge jets of blood sprayed out in all directions from the centre of each man, shards of bones broke and shattered, flying out as shrapnel and embedding themselves in the other men nearby. The force amassed against Sarakon was being slaughtered, pleasant memories for the Dark Knight as he saw himself kicking away a decapitated head, which slowly rolled to a stop some ten feet away, the dead, dead eyes fixed in a cold and empty gaze out across the bloody field, as the king lashed out with his right hand, with Heretic and in one fell swoop even more men were cut down, the two reigned supreme as the death cries joined the smell of death in the air around.
It was nothing new to Sarakon, he had lived through this moment, yet he still got angry as he saw a peasant approaching the Dark King from behind, a curved dagger drawn...and with one motion a hand came across the King's shoulder, to shift his helmet up, and then the dagger too came in, to cut across his throat and spill his lifeblood out to join that of so many others that had stained the fields that night. That was where Sarakon's memory of the events ended, yet the vision continued.
The peasants started to go wild at the sight of the fallen king, cheering, they stormed the castle. They tore through the doors, heading deep into the interior and then in one horrifying moment Sarakon realised exactly what he was about to see, the peasants were heading towards where his wife had hid during the conflict, a sanctuary from the fighting yet even the stronghold within the palace wouldn't be bale to hold off the peasants for long...Sarakon knew now he was about to see the death of his wife, yet some kind of paralysis had overcome him, he couldn't shut his mind off, he couldn't block the vision that that tore through his mind relentlessly. The screeching, the piercing cries emanating from Heretic, kept Sarakon's mind alert, keeping the vision alive, and the mighty knight's blood boiled and hands clenched into tight fists and he let out a oar of anger and despair, as he saw the peasants burst into the chamber of his wife, Katherine, and a million hands tore her down, to the floor. They groped at her as she struggled to escape, but she was forced down and held back as the bastards raped her again and again. He couldn't bear to see this, Sarakon's mental torture was too great, going far beyond any scars he had ever sustained in battle..His mind began to break down, all he could think of was the people and Katherine, she had never hurt anyone, not a fly, yet their anger and wrath had turned on her..they were animals, bastards...after he'd worked so hard to make the kingdom strong and great, they had not only killed him, but the savages had abused a total innocent, the damn people were all the same...there would be no peace for the bastards. Sarakon eyes widened as he suddenly saw Katherine arch her back, letting out a piercing scream before collapsing to the stone floor with a dull thud, her blood spilling out of her abdomen, where she had just neatly planted the blade of her small dagger. The torment she had at the hands of those peasants was too great for her, she couldn't bear for it to go on..And so this beautiful woman, this innocent person that loved life more than anything, had ended her own. And this revelation of the time immediately after Sarakon's death tore him apart inside, he was screaming, screaming for the vision to end, screaming in unison with heretic, cries of despair and anger against shrieks of joy and bloodlust and for the first time the two sounded as one.
And then all at once relief came to him, as he felt a familiar presence, among others, drawing him out of the Nexus, into some other place, a place he had never been to be, an area charged with the feeling of death, he took solace in this change, for anything was better than the torment he had just faced, but Sarakon was still filled with anger and despair, a large portion of which was directed at Heretic, why had they tortured him so? He couldn't understand why his closest ally had shown him those things, though he should have known that such a powerful force couldn't be controlled or predicted easily..But despite his anger, part of Sarakon was glad to know the truth, even though the sight of Katherine's blood smeared across the stone sanctuary floor about her violated body still burned in his eyes, scarring his retinas, burning the image into his soul forever.
His vision blurred as it returned to him and the first thing he saw was spear points all around him pointing to his neck, held by dark warriors, figures of pure darkness that stood around him. He felt Heretic's unique presence on his back, the souls amassed within the blade were singing, a choir of unified shrieks, all aching for blood and destruction, and Sarakon too felt that desire, that unholy blood lust, he needed to wreak his wrath unto someone, something, all things, his teeth were grit and his breathing was loud, almost like grunts as he glared at the shadow warriors. Yet he didn't make an attempt to fight them yet, he could feel two others nearby and it seemed something was to happen soon, and so he waited, grinning as soon as he recognised the presence of Turks.
All this, just for me....I guess someone thinks pretty highly of me, and it looks like that emerald armoured figure is the authority here...great to see Turks has become nothing more than a lapdog, for all his talk of prophecies and shadow elder might, ultimately he's nothing more than a servant, a slave, and that is what separates us...
The young looking warrior walked over to him, memories of their battle and the few times they had met subsequently returned to Sarakon as he caught sight of the Argalchius hanging by Turks' side, Sarakon had died for the second time on that day, yet once more he had managed to claw his way out of hell but the memory stayed with him for he had been foolish on that day. He'd let Turks' appearance fool him, he had underestimated his foe and paid the price for it, but it would be entertaining to show Turks his true place on the universal hierarchy in a rematch, for no transformation the boy can pull off can match the skill of a Tarronian Dark Knight who's learned from past battles, and Turks certainly wouldn't have air superiority anymore. But it seemed the Shadow Elder wasn't the one he'd face today, but given the way he was guarding the only visible exit situated between two huge and twisted statues, cloven hands of granite rising from the ground, it seemed that even if he beat this so called Stigmata, he'd still have to get through Turks too. It certainly wasn't the best situation he'd ever been in, but Sarakon didn't even care anymore. The visions of his wife kept on stabbing through his mind and he no longer saw these figures around as threats, they were targets. He longed to lash out the world and all around, to consume it in his wrath, it seemed during that vision his reawakened humanity drowned in a sea of emotion and all that was left was the warrior, still hungry for power, but now hungry for blood and death too, driven to the depths of madness by visions of the truth.
Sarakon's brow began to furrow with anger as all his muscles tightened up, his fists clenched and shaking furiously and with a grunt the burning anger seeped into his eyes, and a hellish glow emanated from the cracks in his armour too, the warrior was truly a sight to behold in his rage. He suspected that even Turks harboured fear of him, especially in this state, but he knew this Stigmata was above fear, but it mattered not. With a gesture from Turks the shadow warriors vanished, and then Stigmata himself spoke,
“Let the battle begin”
The giant warrior's voice tore across the plain with a sense of authority and power, but Sarakon ignored those things, as he immediately charged forwards, his feet tearing at the ground as he reached up to his back with both hands and pulled both his axe and Heretic free, wielding the huge sword with his right hand effortlessly and the axe in his left, he continued to charge, letting out an almighty roar, a true signal that the battle had started.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, Sarakon completely changed course, dashing to his left past one of the unusual statues that littered the battle grounds, ramming both of his weapons through the structure as he tore past it, ripping a clean incision straight through the structure which tilted and spun a little above the cut, yet stayed upright. The Dark Knight instantly threw his weight around as he spun, digging his feet into the ground and skidding backwards on the muddy, grassy floor from the momentum he had before, and then straight away he charged again, lining himself up so that the statue was directly between himself and Stigmata, and launched himself into the air, lashing out with a powerful kick just as he reached the statue in mid-flight, his strong armoured right leg snapping out, his foot ploughing into the huge mass of granite and sending it flying towards the noble looking Stigmata.
Sarakon landed on the lower part of the statue he had just cut and turned into a projectile, watching as he saw the huge chunk of rock tearing across the land towards its target.
With a grin, the Dark Knight swept a hand through his long dark hair,
"Let the battle begin indeed" |
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Bastard
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The declaration of the start of the battle had been sounded by Stigmata. Now would give him the chance to see what sort of a threat Sarakon would be and if he would be as strong as Turks had said. In appearance he looked mighty, like a great king and a hardened warrior, yet there was something beyond that, some extreme power that resided within him and the sword that he bore. The anger and blood lust that could be sensed within both of them would be unnerving to any normal man; it was even fairly surprising to Stigmata who had lived with a blood lust and a lust for the death of all humans for all his long years. Sarakon had something more than that, as though his whole life had been full of mental torture and now all he wished to do was to destroy anything that got in his way. Stigmata could see it in his eyes, the way his rage erupted as the beginning of the battle was sounded and the way he charged forward. This rage felt like it had been enlarged by a recent event, this would give Stigmata an advantage; Sarakon was loosing control.
Stigmata watched as the dark knight charged towards him, seemingly coming straight towards him. But this was not his path; too much anger was inside of him right now to be tactical. Sarakon turned his course, ripping two great weapons, the sword that held so much power and a huge battle axe, with little effort from his back and plunging them deep into a statue that stood in front of him. Stigmata looked on, taking in the hate that he bore for even the statue, watching as he squeezed the bone handle of the sword, twisted it and wrenched the blades out from the statues middle. The top of it wobbled but did not collapse. It had been a clean cut and the state stood upon the verge of falling, yet it stayed quite comfortably where it was. Sarakon’s momentum carried him on though, finally skidding to a halt on the soft ground a few feet away after tearing up strips of mud and grass.
Sarakons gaze shot towards the statue that had not fallen with his strike. His eyes pierced the stone and looked through it, on to Stigmata. The great warrior tore forwards and sprung into the air, smashing the huge piece of rock with a powerful kick that sent the top half of the statue soaring towards Stigmata. The clump of rock was easily big enough to knock even the largest man off his feet but the distance was fair and it could be dodged without much effort. Stigmata knew that he could dodge the boulder; he even knew that he could side step it and slice it in two. This was not the time for simplicity though; this was the time for fireworks and wonder. Always had Stigmata battled, trying to show as little effort as possible as to scare, or manipulate the opponents’ emotions. This time though his opponent was different. The power surged through him and it was more than obvious that this easy sort of control would not work with someone so wise and strong minded. The only way to beat this foe would be with cunning and pure power exertion.
The top half of the statue was still heading towards Stigmata. Stigmata closed his eyes as if concentrating and then continued to move his left leg backwards so that he was side on with Sarakon and the object that was always moving closer to him. As soon as he had moved his leg round, he raised his arm upwards and out to the side, his palm facing the huge rock. Then Stigmata swung his head round vigorously, opening his eyes as he became inline with the rock. There was a flash of light and the top half of the statue exploded, shards of it flying off in all directions. As piece of it flew towards Stigmata, who still had his hand up and a menacing look in his eyes, they disintegrated. The other pieces however smashed into statues and the claw like pillars that surrounded this fighting area, some were even sent in the direction of Sarakon.
They did not do too much damage, but they gave Stigmata a chance to strike while Sarakon would most likely be covering himself from the rock. Stigmata did not take this chance though, which was maybe a foolish decision, but Stigmata preferred to fight honorably. If cheap attacks are made from things that were not even meant to happen, then it is no true performance of yourself. You are merely acting through luck and consequences then when you don’t get that luck, you will find that the battle is not as easily fought as it normally is and that is when you loose.
The patter of the shards of rock faded away into nothingness and all became calm once more. Stigmata still clasped his sword tightly, he had drawn it while he was commanding the flow of the stream and he still held it now, although so far he hadn’t used it. Once the calm had arrived, Stigmata had dropped his arm to his side. Now he could return his sword to his right arm, his strong arm and look towards making his move in this battle now that he had a chance to strike.
Stigmata looked at his enemy with a stern look, anger was not boiling in him yet, but it would no doubt come along at some time. Then Stigmata would have the choice of restraining his anger or unleashing it and reeking havoc. All was quiet and calm except for the tension in the atmosphere between these two warriors. As the tension built up, it made it harder for each of them to attack. Any attack now would be sudden, maybe rushed, it was all about timing. Stigmata took a step forward and it looked as though he was about to attack, but then he spoke, his voice echoing out as if he was commanding legions of men. Proud and regal was his tone, and always remaining formal, even to someone who was attempting to kill.
“For centauries I have battled, for centauries I have trained and for two millenniums I have lived as a mortal being. You may think that it is impossible for a mortal to live for such a long time, well, not really, not if you know how. I will not explain the process as you will probably know of it, but it basically is driven by self restoration. All this time I have battled for a purpose though, in the end, to see the destruction of the entire human race. This would obviously take a long time. Humans are born like parasites, and not enough of us willing to fight against them. You know it as I do, you may even have seen it as I have, that the human race will one day destroy all others and live in these realms as a single race, on their own. They live for power and that would be their ultimate power. It is people like us who should be killing them, not killing each other. This path of mine has led me down many roads though and in the end I began to fight anyone for the thrill of battle, always searching for new and more powerful foes. This is what led me to you, the ultimate warrior, and my ultimate test.”
With that Stigmata charged towards Sarakon, his blade brandished and moving slowly upwards until it was just behind his head. Stigmata ran past Sarakon though, up towards the claw-like pillars that surrounded them. Stigmata sprang forwards towards them, spinning in mid-air and pushing off the pillars to head back towards Sarakon. Stigmata moved through the air as if he was still on the ground, moving speedily and smoothly. As he neared Sarakon his sword began to glow with a red glow, Stigmata was charging his power into the blade to give it a new kind of strength. The swords glow was not intense, more of an aura than anything, but it was clearly there.
If Stigmata struck with this attack he could slice clean through any part of Sarakons body. The extra power within the swords blade gave it enough strength and momentum to be able to pierce even Sarakons thick armor. Then, once the sword had become stationary, it would give out an explosive energy blast. This energy would rip through anything in its way before returning to its source; Stigmata. Because of this trap in which if the sword became stationary, then the energy blast would finish off the work, if Sarakon used his own sword to block the attack, either that would be destroyed or the energy would be released further and injure them both.
Either way the energy was going to be released, it all depended on what damage it did along the way. We would so find out how the battle continued.
Stigmata continued his course through the air, arching his back and shoulders away from Sarakon and moving his sword further down his back until he was almost right in front of his enemy. Then the giant warrior switched all of his weight and thrust himself forwards and down, bringing his down toward the skull of Sarakon. Stigmata knew some of what Sarakon was capable of, he had seen it in Turks’ thoughts and it worried him slightly. During his battle with Turks, Sarakon had been put through a hellish time, his own legs had been burnt away from him and yet he still carried on the battle until both fighters destroyed themselves. That was great commitment to a battle and a will stronger than any Stigmata had ever known. Sarakon reminded him of himself.
Time seemed to stand still at times while Stigmata was gracefully soaring through the air, yet reaction times stayed the same. All was unreal, the battle of the century had begun and little was known as of yet as these two titans clashed together in a brutal show of power and skill. Only one would survive this whole affair and both warriors counted on it to be them. They were equally matched but in different ways, each possessed his own source of power, his own fighting style, his own magic types and his own battle techniques. Only time could tell what the outcome of this battle would be. Two of the strongest warriors, who if it hadn’t been for their own egotistical views and ideas, would probably work well on the same side. This had not come to be though, a different course and a different fate had been set before both of them, one of their stories would end today though unless something could be done once again to stop the course of justice of which both had escaped from before. |
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Sarakon crouched down, perched atop the broken statue watching the solid projectile tear across the land with tremendous speed, but even with that momentum it had quite a distance to travel, even Turks would have been able to deal with such a pathetic attack, surely this Stigmata would easily evade it. Of course it didn't matter to Sarakon in the slightest, Stigmata would die, Turks would die, the statues would be brought down to the ground, it was Sarakon's desire that even the land itself be torn asunder by his power, he held contempt even for the worlds, the realms themselves, for they spawned the creatures that amassed against him, the forces that rebelled against him and took all he held dear from him in life and those that now persecute him in the name of Heaven and Hell. In his mind and heart he cursed them all, everything in existence would fall to him and he would remake it all in the perfection under the new empire of Tarronia. He would control what the people do, what they say, how they think, the horrors and tragedies of the past would not exist for anyone in his perfect realm, for the savages that would dare to rebel against his vision would fall to Heretic, his wrath, his vengeance.
His mind was wandering off into thoughts of the new empire, thoughts of death and destruction, it was all that held him together as the vision continued to bore through his mind, going on in a loop. For the first time Sarakon felt fear in his heart, he was afraid that the vision would never leave him, that his torment would be eternal and his only possible reaction was to lose himself in thoughts of revenge, thoughts of the battle and to embrace the screams for blood coming from within Heretic, all the horrors of those tormented souls washed over his consciousness, as he fought desperately to end the pain.
"BASTARDS"
He roared as he smashed his right hand down into the statue he rested upon in frustration, a crack instantly appeared running horizontally along the top of the rocky clump and a large chunk fell off the side as Sarakon returned his gaze to the rock headed for Stigmata and his thoughts to the battle.
The chunk of rock tumbled through the air, eclipsing his foe and blocking Sarakon from seeing what Stigmata was doing. Suddenly the boulder became silhouetted, as an intense light shone brightly behind it, obviously Stigmata's handiwork.
Where the huge rock had once been, now all that was visible was a fine cloud of dust and shards of rock that ripped out across the plain like shrapnel, as the giant emerald armoured warrior stood there with a single hand held up, his palm facing Sarakon through the line of movement the huge rock had taken. Sarakon made no attempt the dodge the rocks that tore through the musky air towards him like daggers, given the distance towards him and the spread of the debris he knew very few of those fragments would come anywhere near him, three in total, two harmlessly smashed into his armour, bouncing off with a dull clanging noise before rattling along the floor to a standstill. However, the other piece tore into Sarakon's left cheek, ripping up the flesh and tearing part of his jaw to shreds, his flat expression didn't change, he made not a sound nor movement as it ruined his face.
It shall heal..
Annoyed by a stray bit of bone and flesh that dangled from the messy wound, he reached up and tore away the broken sections of jaw and flesh, leaving him with half of his face opened up and bleeding profusely, it made the smile he gave Stigmata look all the more chilling, but the most haunting thing about the Dark Knight to a mortal man would have been his eyes, a pale, calm, serene, blue colour washed over them, but in the depths you could see the insanity brewing away, dancing in him like flames licking at the prize pig turned on a spit.
He knows he cannot intimidate me, why did he not just dodge the attack? A demonstration of power perhaps? He'll see real power...
Stigmata stood tall and proud instead of rushing into an attack, to many that would be viewed as a wasted opportunity, but what Stigmata said next revealed his intent,
“For centauries I have battled, for centauries I have trained and for two millenniums I have lived as a mortal being. You may think that it is impossible for a mortal to live for such a long time, well, not really, not if you know how. I will not explain the process as you will probably know of it, but it basically is driven by self restoration. All this time I have battled for a purpose though, in the end, to see the destruction of the entire human race. This would obviously take a long time. Humans are born like parasites, and not enough of us willing to fight against them. You know it as I do, you may even have seen it as I have, that the human race will one day destroy all others and live in these realms as a single race, on their own. They live for power and that would be their ultimate power. It is people like us who should be killing them, not killing each other. This path of mine has led me down many roads though and in the end I began to fight anyone for the thrill of battle, always searching for new and more powerful foes. This is what led me to you, the ultimate warrior, and my ultimate test.”
His strong words were clear, he wanted a challenge, and he wouldn't make a cowardly attack like an opportunistic weakling because there would be no effort in that, no honour. Sarakon began to think that perhaps Stigmata was right, perhaps they were on similar paths, but their motives and policies differed. Stigmata sought to death of all humans, Sarakon sought the death of all that crossed him, all that would ruin his perfect empire, although in the end with Sarakon's current temperament they would both achieve the same result.
His words didn't have much chance to settle in Sarakon's mind, Stigmata immediately leapt into a charge after his speech. He tore across the ground at a tremendous pace, far faster than one might expect for someone in such armour, but good quality armour was something Sarakon knew a lot about so it didn't particularly surprise him,
Everyone seems to have magic swords and armour these days
Still in a crouch, perched atop the ruined statue, Sarakon shifted into a better stance, his axe held on his left and Heretic on his right, both angled to guard his body from attack. But an attack did not come straight away, it made sense that such a warrior wouldn't try for a direct attack like that, it would be awfully clumsy after all. Sarakon arched an eyebrow as he watched Stigmata dash straight past him, his sword now up behind his head ready to strike hard had started glowing with a pulsing red aura. Sarakon's instincts told him to move, every fibre of his being wanted him to dive away from this spot, knowing the force in the sword would be released any second now, but this Sarakon didn't do that at all, bitter and sorrowful, angry and hateful, he didn't care what Stigmata could do to him, Sarakon would take everything he could throw at him and slowly make him bleed and scream for mercy.
He turned around, tracking Stigmata's movement with his lifeless eyes, gracefully Stigmata jumped up, flying through the air towards one of the many pillars around, twisting to face the Dark Knight as drew closer to it, he made contact with the earthen pillar and launched himself back towards Sarakon. The Dark Knight already had his weapons held up to guard him and was ready to defend against the ensuing onslaught. Shifting his weight to brace himself against the statue below, Sarakon thrust his weapons up, his arms almost fully extended to take the shock from the glowing blade directed at his head. In an instant the deafening sound of metal colliding rang out across the battle field, sparks flew and Sarakon's vision filled with red as the energy was unleashed from Stigmata's blade.
The Dark Knight was sent flying across the ground, skidding through the dirt until he collided with another statue, the one he'd been sitting on before now gone, its place marked by a small crater. Wearily, Sarakon got to his feet, his head was ringing, blood was pouring out of his face, out of the back of his head, his left arm appeared to be broken and his axe seemed to be gone, he looked at his foe incredulously and simply said
"...that actually hurt..."
Sarakon bowed his head for a moment, catching his breath while trying to calm the anger inside, but he couldn't. The Sarakon that emerged the day he slaughtered the mage armies of Iiryvan, the Sarakon that slaughtered thousands of Tarronian rebels by his own hand and the very same Sarakon that pulled himself from the depths of burning liquid flame to wreak his vengeance on Turks was an uncontrollable force, even for the man himself. Inside his heart pounded, the extra blood pumped through the vessels in his blank eyes making them burn with a dark red. Gritting his teeth he raised his head back up, the rage clear on his bloody face as he sneered at Stigmata and spat out a couple of loose teeth.
Screams filled his mind, deep within Heretic the many began to sing, the great choir of death building to a crescendo of hissing cries for the end of this foe. Without even thinking, his head ripped back and a mighty, guttural roar sounded out as Sarakon poured every single portion of his dark power into the surrounding particles, imbuing them with tremendous kinetic energy. The effects were all too similar, but this time the build up was far quicker, and the effects much more devastating. As soon as his head went back, as soon as he let out his cry, Sarakon's power spread out, a colossal wall of pure heat blasting out in a great expanding sphere around him, tearing up the land on it's course towards Stigmata and the surrounding land.
At the blast's epicentre Sarakon fell to his knees, his muscles suddenly cramped, feeling the effects of fatigue. He smiled as Heretic roared with laughter at the scenes of devastation around, a happy Sarakon crawled up off the ground to rest against a rock nearby at the centre of a huge crater, resting and smiling he waited to get his strength back...in that release of primal emotion he felt liberation from his pain, for now.
[OOC - Meh, I couldn't think of anything decent to do lol, so i figure I'd have him wasting all his energy because he's in a bit of a state right now and he's a bit of a *****] |
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The dust was swept away quickly after the destruction of Sarakons attack. The pieces of broken rock had smashed into some of the pillars and statues around Stigmata and they now had several indents and pieces broken off of them. Stigmata did not care that he had damaged them though; they were merely props, an insignificant part of the landscape around him. Objects that could be used against you or used by you, but that were not important enough to ever pose as a threat or cause one. They could be dealt with easily and were always an obvious attack, yet they were useful sometimes.
The distance between the two warriors seemed to be too short for the stone that came from the explosion to reach or harm Sarakon in anyway. Most of the pieces didn’t even reach him or flicked off his armour, but this did not mean Sarakon came out unharmed. One loose, jagged rock struck the mighty warrior across his cheek, tearing the skin away from his face and crushing the bone and soft tissue around his jaw. The rock whizzed long his jaw line, ripping it to shreds and causing blood to spray from the wound on impact. Stigmata watched the rubble along its course until it dipped and bounced along the soft, damp ground before looking up to Sarakon. The blood from the wound had splattered onto the statue that he was perched on, a deep red, easily visible on top of the cold, grey stone. The dark knight had not moved during this whole ordeal, not even blinking or twitching as his face was cut open. He moved his hand towards his face and tore off the loose bits of skin and bone, drops of blood falling and landing on the other puddle as he did.
Stigmata had been silent throughout this sequence of events, not moving or saying a word. He watched; his eyes fixed on Sarakons face with the same placid look that gave nothing away. Then he saw Sarakons gaze turn to an evil grin, one far more terrible because of the newly gained battle mark. Stigmata too smiled for he knew what was to come. Stigmata spoke of his torment, his task in life, his goal. There was of course no reaction from Sarakon, but of course he hadn’t expected one, he hadn’t wanted one. The great warrior tore forwards towards Sarakon, turning and then leaping towards one of the claw-like pillars around the perimeter. He spun on his jump so that he would be facing Sarakon in mid air. From here his feet made contact with the pillar, his own force causing his knees to bend and him to constrict his body size. Then he pushed off the pillar and shot towards his enemy in front of him, his sword above his head ready to strike. While it was there a red glow, an aura of energy, began to surround the blade, the actual sword taking in Stigmata’s energy so that it could be released with possibly catastrophic consequences. The main danger in this was the trap of the stationary blade. If the attack was stopped, the energy would be released, damaging whoever was unlucky to be in the way.
Stigmata neared Sarakon and switched his body weight so that as he descended, he swung his sword over his head, thrusting his hips backwards and creating a bigger force to strike upon his opponent. His blade came down, Sarakon ready with both of his weapons outstretched. It had appeared that he was going to take whatever he had coming to him. The weapons clashed together, at first grinding and scraping like any other weapons, but then suddenly a brilliant flash of red shot from Stigmata‘s sword. An outburst of energy shot from the sword, its blade was the epicenter and anything around instantly knew the consequences of the stationary blade. Sarakon was thrust backwards by the blast, and sent flying along the ground until he smashed into one of the surrounding pillars and cracking it along where he collided with it. A long skid mark showed the course that Sarakon had took from where he had crouched before to where he was slumped now, and a small crater where he once was.
Sarakon looked quite a state. His head was pouring with blood, streaming down his face and neck. The back of his head was bleeding from what Stigmata could see as Sarakons head rested forward. His arm lay limp by his side, seemingly broken, and yet still he got to his feet.
“…that actually hurt…”He said as he regained composure. As Sarakon bent his head forward to catch his breath, Stigmata noticed that the axe that had lain in the warriors hand was gone, with no trace but the scorch marks on his palm. Stigmata had landed softly in the crater made by the energy blast. The earth was now blackened and smoking, the wisps of grey smoke that rose from the ash beneath lofted above Stigmata’s head. Sarakon looked up, he was trying to hide the anger that had spread across every part of his face, but his task was tireless, he could not hide that which was there. He spat a few loose teeth out and smiled at Stigmata, grim looking and battered. His anger drove him though and his head snapped back, a loud roar stretched across the battle field, a roar of hate and anger, one that he would spawn his revenge form, a roar that would call for the death and destruction of Stigmata.
As soon as Sarakon roared, Stigmata knew there was something on its way, but he did not know it would be so soon. From Sarakon came a blast of pure heat energy, energy that spread throughout the surrounding particles and grew into a great sphere that expanded outwards, scorching everything in its paths and tearing it apart with the shear heat and power of the blast. The blast had an orange tinge to it because of the heating up of the particles. This was the only reason Stigmata even noticed that the wave even existed. Stigmata dropped to the ground as soon as he noticed what was happening, covering his face with one hand and stretching the other out in front of him to attempt to put some sort of a barrier between himself and the oncoming attack. His reactions were quick but already the heat was mounting, the attack was on top of him. Stigmata put all the energy he could spare in such a short time into cooling the level of the scorching particles.
The blast of heat smashed into something just in front of Stigmata, a curved barrier of pale blue stopped the heat wave in its tracks, but it could not stop it completely. The temperature was rising and Stigmata couldn’t concentrate fully because of the speed and unexpectedness of the attack. His mind had wandered slightly, mainly because of the state of Sarakon; he did not think that the huge warrior would be able to muster an attack of this sort of power so soon after he had been struck and blasted half way across the arena by the powerful energy blast. Stigmata had not started strongly in his defense and finding it hard to combat this force. The icy force in between Stigmata and the fiery sphere was weakening by the second; it was doing nothing to lessen its counter part. The pale blue shield began to fade as Stigmata’s energy was sapped from him. The heat blast broke through and tore through Stigmata fiercely. It burnt away the skin from the sides of his face and his neck leaving a scorched mess of red and bloody skin. His whole body was stinging incredibly, although luckily his armour had protected him to some extent, its magical properties aided the cooling of the blast and left him with only minor burns compared to those around his neck. The skin around his neck had been melted away; a sticky mess was all that remained of the skin.
Stigmata had dropped to his knees from the crouched position that he had been in before, his head rested on the ground in front of him and his heart beat rapidly. He was aching, the pain had spread across his whole body and his energy was low. Stigmata moved his hands to his neck, not touching the wound but hovering just above it. He closed his eyes and felt a soothing sensation as he cooled the molten skin as best he could. He continued to do this to all effected areas of his body until the pain began to lower to a more bearable level. He could not get rid of the pain completely. To do that he would have to regenerate and fully heal himself, now he just didn’t have time. That he could do after this battle was over.
Stigmata caught his breath while he rested on his hands and knees. His left hand filled with pain as he put his weight on to it. His left hand had been the one which had received the full force of the attack and had been badly burnt, even under his armoured glove. His hand twitched away from him as he lay it down, before he soothed it as best he could to relive the pain. Stigmata was still looking at the ground, anger spreading through him. He clenched his fists tightly, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Fiercely he spun his sword in his hand so that the blade faced down and he drove it into the ground. Stigmata’s straggly hair hung loosely from his head. Some it had been burnt of completely, but his hair had been thick and the blast short and so he was not bald in any places. His hair had been badly singed though and much of it burnt away, so that it was now thin and grey in some places. Stigmata shook with the anger, still staring at the ground and gripping on to the sword.
He pulled himself up on to one knee and looked up, straight into the eyes of Sarakon. The dark knight had an evil grin spread widely across his face, but Stigmata could see that even he was slightly surprised at the white glazed glow in Stigmata eyes. A glow that did not shine, but rather lay there dully and pierced the soul of his enemy. From the first time that Stigmata had regenerated his body he had been cursed with these eyes. They were in this state while he regenerates and while his anger is enraged. Sarakon was resting on a rock just outside of the crater that had formed at the epicenter of the blast. The ground all around was scorched black; smoke still rising just like after Stigmata’s energy blast. Yet this was on a much larger scale. The whole of the area that the two were fighting in had been burnt, no grass remained. The tops of most of the claw like pillars and the statues had parts of them blasted off of them. The whole place was a wreck.
Stigmata looked ghostly, these eyes were the eyes of the dead, they held no life, emotionless, nothingness, they were there as a reminder of his deaths, a reminder that he was stronger than anyone because he still survived after so much. They filled him with power, energy, a will to slaughter, maim and kill. Stigmata got to his feet, still staring at Stigmata, but now he drew his second sword, an elven blade that had been strapped around his ankle. Stigmata was not in the mood for showing off, his blade extended as he pulled it from its sheath, as if it had always been that long. He held one blade in each hand, stretching his arms out in front of him. Slowly he twisted his arms so that the blades were facing towards him. Then he stabbed both blades through his solar plexus. As he did this he smiled at Sarakon, while he was still glaring at him.
Strangely, Stigmata did not bleed at all when he did this. Instead, black oil like liquid ran out from within him, spreading across his blades and under his hands until the whole of both swords was covered. Suddenly Stigmata lifted from the ground, he began to levitate, rising about a foot off the ground in a ghostly fashion. A shrill wind swept across the battlefield, one that would chill the very bones of normal men. His feet came together and his hands let go of his swords so that his arms could stretch out wide above him. The great warrior was in a position where it had all started, the crucifix position in the shape of a cross. Stigmata’s neck shot back and his eyes closed, his long hair now dangling behind him. As this happened it was as though the nails had been struck into him all over again. Yet Stigmata’s expression did not change, he showed no sign of pain, this was because there could be no pain, this was a sequence of illusions, something needed to unlock the power hidden within Stigmata’s fury.
Stigmata opened his eyes now and looked about. The expressionless face cracked into a smile and then into laughter. His ill meant laughter rang around this battle field, laughter of delight at the pain in which he wished to cause Sarakon. Stigmata cackled wildly, a chilling array of hate for all that filled the hearts of men with doubt and sorrow, fear and anguish. He loathed the feeling of causing pain to others, only good could come out of ridding the world of another pitiful creature. Sarakon was not one of these, but he had got in the way. Even though it was Stigmata who had searched him out, there would have been a time when their paths would have crossed and this battle would have taken place.
The two swords that had been separate before were now one, morphed together to create a more powerful sword, a sword that was better than both of his other swords. It had the same direct features of both the other two swords; powerful yet lightweight. But now the sword was longer than before and wider, more like a long broadsword if it was to be classed. The handle was wide and tough, made of something close to iron, yet it was far lighter and a lot stronger due to its magical properties. A black leather grip stretched down three quarters of the length of the handle and for the bottom quarter, a part of the handle that wasn’t covered and then an end like a large, thick arrow head. The hilt was wide and made of the same material as the handle, and it was engraved with runic lettering that stretched the whole width of it. The blade widened part way up and then thinned in again. Where it began to thin it had a part missing so that there was a sort of spike facing towards the hilt. This was so that when Stigmata stabbed someone, it would rip away part of where ever he stabbed them when he pulled the blade out.
Stigmata grabbed the handle and pulled it out of him. As it emerged it could be seen that no wound had been left from where the blades had stabbed in. Stigmata marveled at the blade that had been create, a blade crafted from his very soul, evil and tainted, a sword of pure hate and anger. The Greek tyrant lowered slowly to the floor as he smiled at the sword, then he looked towards Sarakon.
“I have been awoken”
Stigmata didn’t wait for any kind of reply, he sprang forwards as if the heat blast was just a bad dream, a new lease of life was within him, but the pains were still there. It was apparent in his movements no matter how energetic he seemed. Stigmata jumped and spun in mid air, his sword held firmly in his right hand. Stigmata pulled back his sword as if he was about to stab someone, although there was nobody to stab yet, then the wind that had swept through before came back, its speed hightened around Stigmata, spinning about his body and whistling around the baron wasteland that had once been covered with fresh green grass. Stigmata pulled back his sword as far as it would go and then he used the wind to surround him and push him towards Sarakon. The force of the wind hightened Stigmata's speed making him travel faster and faster until things began to blur. Stigmata neared Sarakon within seconds. If Sarakon did nothing then he would be scewered by Stigmata's blade, and if he got in the way Stigmata would collide with Sarakons already tender arm.
Hopefully because of the speed of the attack, if Sarakon attempted to spin and hit Stigmata from behind, Stigmata would be moving fast enough to be able to avoid the strike and roll out of it with only a few bumps and bruises.
(hmm I'm fairly pleased with that post) |
Last edited by Turks : 01.09.04 at 18:22:14.
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