True beauty may only be appreciated, once it has been broken.
One man may have many names, from titles earned through deed and dread, to mantles made through coin and culture; yet when Malice's gaze had first fallen upon the dainty dame, there was but one that echoed through eternity, and whispered of intent, before ever its foul fruit could blossom, Defiler. This unspeakable foe had dethroned deities, conquered kingdoms, and crushed cults beneath his heel; but there was something to be said for life's simple pleasures, something to be savoured in screams wrought through sacrilege, and innocence torn from hesitant hips.
The soldiers he had slaughtered then, had been but unfortunate obstacles in the way of such pastimes; for in truth their allegiance mattered little to the Warlord, whose senses still sung with the succour of their suffering, even after they were dead. Before he could complete his pursuit, however, and claim the maiden that now cowered against a tangle of tree-roots, the minds of men grew restless; comrades' chattering amidst a plethora of psionic energy that, whilst encrypted, appeared to centre upon the juggernaut's immediate vicinity. A cruel and knowing smile contorted the fiend's black lips then, as electrical impulses flickered menacingly within the halls of his head and swiftly began to build; almost as if it were a hearth stoked too hot, which threatened to spew its cinders upon the room that housed it. Once enough of this energy had congregated inside his consciousness, Malice unveiled a portion of his psionic might; piercing the dam that held it at bay and unleashing a potent tide that penetrated the humble glades he now stood within.
This pulse was but a precursor to the conflict to come though, for even as Rallen approached from the south, doubtless in reaction to his arrival, a catapsionic field formed; producing such savage interference that practitioners would be as ships within a storm, absent the rays of a lighthouse to guide their abilities to fruition. Disrupting communications and, inadvertently, dissuading reinforcements from discovering them in the process then, it seemed for a time at least, that knight would confront knave without the comfort of brethren at their back; naked and alone against the jaws that would devour them.
Silenced by sorcery, and motivated by mercy, Rallen's fervour would not be greeted by a prone and pliant foe, however; for even as he emerged from the undergrowth, silent as a spectre, his scent betrayed what sound alone could not. Differing from the corpses that moved no more, and approaching from another direction, the smell of metal mixed with sweat caused Malice to turn; his attention forsaking its quarry, if only briefly, as he discovered another whose body he could break. Two deep wells of sorrow, so bottomless they sapped hope from any who gazed upon them, surveyed the stranger with a mixture of excitement and disdain; for though chivalry endured in this man's veins, the cogs that sustained their stature were laid bare before his monstrous eyes, things that could burn through flesh, and even bone in their intensity.
Hurling their shield at the Warlord was a distraction, of that there was no doubt, and perhaps it bought the flower precious time, before her petals were inevitably plucked; but Malice was no novice and, deciphering Rallen's gestures, like a seasoned scholar might a scroll, he calculated its intended trajectory before it had a chance to culminate its collision. Moving with a haste that belied the skull adorned plate he wore, the juggernaut leapt neatly aside, as the projectile surged towards him; striking it a resounding blow as it began to pass his left side and sending it twirling off into the undergrowth without so much as a word. When the knight issued a challenge though, in the wake of discarding the first of his defences, a devilish expression writhed its way across Malice's face; a sadistic sneer that communicated his acceptance, even as the obsidian shell that snugly smothered his skin started to shift, almost as if it were alive.
Sweeping across his body, like a purging wave would the shore, the Armour of Woe felt its master's thirst for bloodshed rising and, in response, smoothly slithered across his frame; drowning his previously exposed upper torso and, indeed, even head in the same unyielding material that protected the rest of his form. Swirling about his left arm, however, came a sturdy looking shield, a circular beast of Spartan splendour, whose surface was fitted with a vicious looking stud that could shatter spines, and plunge through plate in equal measure; a weapon that offered the Warlord a myriad of options, when words fell to blows. Curling his armoured right hand about the hilt of his longsword though, as the last syllables of Rallen's challenge spilled from their lips, Malice tugged upon the tail of blackened bone and summoned a daemon from where it slumbered, forever hungry, in its sheathe; wielding it firmly as its crimson blade glistened eagerly in the sunlight.
Whether the man made good on his boast, however, or quailed before the ghastly raiment of the Great Devourer mattered little in the end; for Malice's appetite had been stirred now, and so the monster retorted in a voice that resembled thunder. “Come then, my brave little soul, for tonight I drink to your bones”.
Reply With Quote
