Nu Jeruxalim falls [closed]

[supernal]

Off topic:
That's right closed! Private thread for epic warfare. Questions, comments or concerns, please send them via PM.

Rosinder: Supernal, Odium, Rajasi and Requiem.
Renovatio: Kush Jones, Paradigm, reign, Absolution.

Arthur sat a distance away, comfortable in the shade of a birch tree on a tall hill. To the fore of the hill stretched the expanse of Nu Jeruxalim. Airships whizzed through the air to and from the city limits in transit, either picking up or dropping off. Its buildings jutted up into the sky at heights unnatural for man.

Perspective is a truly interesting thing. One man could look upon the city and be stunned by the beauty of its architecture, the bold and daring points that mixed with cloud-stuff acting as landing ports for the airships. The way the sun lit up the edges of the city with auric brilliance when it struck at just the right angle just before twilight.

Arthur lowered the binoculars, his face screwed in disgust. He saw buildings that rose to the sky as if they dare to test God. He saw Renovatio's mighty air-ships as pollution in the fare skies, made to be enjoyed by all of God's creations and sullied by these arrogant few. Emblematic of blasphemy. Insulting the sanctity of the Divine Design.

Behind the hill waited a restless army. The distance they waited from the city, combined with intelligent use of a setting that only the natives could know so intimately, provided them with a natural curtain of sorts. A barrier that nestled the battalion and kept them from sight. They were no more restless than could be expected of them, so near the tipping point.

The time spent in graceless subjugation to Renovatio filled them with anxiety. Not trepidation, but avidity. Zeal! Luckily, they were hardened into weapons of warfare by Arthur's hand, and their learned discipline acted like bands of iron around their arms and legs. Without Arthur's presence there to rally them, to keep their passion at bay, they might have spilled over the hill even now and ruined the whole thing.

He wondered what Coda would do in his position.

Only Arthur sat atop the hill. He brought with him a number of accoutrements. Nearest his right hand lay a simple metal headband, a light green crystal affixed to the center of it surrounded by loops of copper and gold wire. Many of the rebels were already wearing similar headbands. Some had their crystals as amulets strung about their necks, others as rings, and others still chose to carry the crystal alone in their pocket.

Whatever the method of conveyance, communication was the goal. Each crystal was farmed from a single, larger crystal in the caves of Norchak. This unique twinning process produced crystals banded to the same frequency and would allow verbal communication across the board.

A shadow fell across his lap. Arthur didn't bother to turn around. He had asked for only one person to meet him.

"Is it time, Arthur?"
"Almost Cheryl, almost. But better early than late, isn't that right?"
"Where do you want me?"
"Just by the tree. I brought you a pillow, and you can lay in the shade. Comfortable?"
"Very. When shall I go into trance?"
"Soon. I'll let you know."

Arthur pressed the binoculars back to his eyes and swept his gaze across the city. Before him lay a large cloth the size of a picnic blanket, but its material seemed more burlap in make and its face was marred with a number of scribbles. Scribbles which moved. Lines that defined the architecture of Nu Jeruxalim in the language of blueprints. He waved a hand over it and the setting 'zoomed out', showing the city in less detail but now including the meteorological movement of the clouds and of the waterfall to the city's eastern side.

"Trance."

Cheryl did not need to be told twice. She was already laying down, her head already against the pillow, when the command word came. She nodded once and immediately her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Cheryl entered a self-induced comatose state; beta waves nearly slipped off the radar while theta and delta cranked off the charts. The girl was a pure telepath. A 'sensitive'. Arthur could use her to communicate with other sensitives among the ranks, if he felt that communication with the crystal was too risky.

A shadow cast itself over Nu Jeruxalim. He reached over and touched her head.

Brandon. The payload..

He then placed the headband on and rose to his feet, gripping tight his sword and shield.

"Gavin." His voice reached across the illimitable miles. "Almost time."

Arthur looked out over the sea of bodies, of shield and sword, as ready to kill as they were to die. The whispers fell to grim silence on grim faces. Not a single word passed.

They began their march over the open field.

[Rajasi]

The riders were split into three equal groups, each coming at Nu Jeruxalim from a different position that formed an isosceles triangle. The citizens and the army would have no idea what they were doing; there was no pattern to how the individuals in the three groups suddenly broke away from the groups themselves to move in unpredictable formations. One group, comprising the newer and less acquainted with war dragon riders, swooped around in a broad circle before pulling up steeply to fly above the clouds and effectively disappearing. There was no doubt that they were attacking so it was certain there would be engagement shortly with the Dragon Riders. Their element of surprise gave the newer recruits a better chance and since they had the most predictable route, it was crucial in sparing their lives to remove them for a short period before they could return once more after the first stage of their mission was completed.

The second group comprised of only four riders—the fastest. Within that first formation, the circle, they moved in four straight lines forming ninety degree angles at each corner before again pulling up steeply and disappearing along with the other group.

By now, chaos reigned on the ground and in the skies; the roar of the citizens below was nearly deafening as the formation that had been formed by the first two groups remained on the ground in acid that could be heard sizzling and melting through all structures and on the ground. And it was with fear that the defenseless would look up to see the last group swooping in to complete the summoning circle.

It was in this one that Brandon was in, along with the other most skilled riders. He would have normally been at the beginning of any formation, but it was necessary he be a part of the third stage. Their skill was necessary as they not only carried extra weight, but had to move swiftly with the extra weight without crashing into other riders. They had practiced with water, and ran over the formation countless times from before dawn to well after nightfall well before Brandon actually knew why they were doing it. Although their movements would have been seamless, the enemy was beginning to engage and to ensure that the summoning circle was completed, Brandon brought back down the second group of riders to help complete the final portions that were interrupted due to firing of the airships.

Focus your energy on the airships now. Brandon directed his attention to the other dragon riders awaiting more orders, bring them down.

Gavin, your turn.

[odium.]

The circle drawn in the oily stuff was quite sloppy, then again it was a feat in itself to have managed to create anything notable from such a high altitude like that. The crests and arches, straights and ovals, acute angles and isosolese triangles placed intermittantly within the large pentagram brought the thing to life. Height was not a factor, the streaking stuff ran down the faces of buildings, across streets and even covered people whole. The entire thing came to life, the liquid stuff glowing as the spell had come to fruition.

Gavin.

Gavin...

... Gavin.

He heard his name a hundred fucking times. Enough was enough.

The tertiary Terces (heh, you like that shit) was unlike the previous two, he was not wearing a crystal or some other communication device. Luckily, the astral pang that scratched at the back of his mind was Cheryl's voice. Arthur spoke through the crystal, simultaneously linked to her, it was like third party communication and half of it was static. The word was Go, but the completion of the circle, no matter what distance between himself and it, had already notified him. Gavin was sick of freezing his ass off, the change of scenery would be pleasant.

"Then we go."

Lifting the badge of Rosinder, this thing became a beacon of light that stretched as far as the eye could see. Far across the vast tundra, where furry men emblazoned in armor stood, shield and lance in hand; where mountains of ice stood as living golems, carrying tree trunks as clubs and boulders. At their feet was a pentagram, far more skillfully whittled into the ice than the one Brand wrote for Renovatio, Gavin stood upon this thing. It was a treaty to the people of Renovatio, writ in his own spiritual language and signed in blood.

This treaty was 'war', the negotiations were 'no mercy, no surrender'. It was authenticated and authorized by the grim reaper.

Everything around him suddenly became different. There he was, staring directly... at himself?! It was his reflection, through a thirtieth story window. The look of determination on his face was efficiently wiped clean and replaced by the more prevalent OSHI--. Hands and feet swam in slow-motion as if to alleviate gravity's stubborness, but to no avail. The summoner plummeted through the air, whipping past story after story until the eminent crash of the most final sort.

Oddly enough, the warriors massed at his end had warped into the city at ground level. Sword and spear piercing flesh and clashing against metal, spilling chaos and trepidation through the streets like some antideluvian flood of retribution.

And like a cat, Gavin landed on his feet. A hundred yards away, a fleeing Renovatian's knee joints exploded out from under him. Blood marked the street where he fell, to lay in agony, before one of the frozen golems accidentally stepped on him. It furrowed a brow, lifting its foot to inspect the stain before wiping the grime from what appeared to be its boot.

"Right-o."

Looking back over his shoulder, three slabs of ice remained in levitation from where he fell. Each was a replica of the other, including the distance they were apart from one another (c wut i did thar). Five meters thick, roughly forty eight meters wide, a hundred and ten meters long. The only difference between them was the pattern, not marked on their surfaces, but beneath the layer as if within the frozen slabs themselves. They each represented something different, but to the Renovatian's, they only represented the end.

[Inception]

Hear low the whistle howl through grated bars and nerves. Hear deeper still the wheeze of my own undoing and the furthest breathe labourious life beneath me and falling. Hear above the caw of crows feasting, festering paradise in rots black; cancerous of murder and genocide. Heat blankets everything in its dying time, giving warmth to cold flesh abnormal in its being. Weighing down it is drier than wet, and takes care to care less now, and to take away comfort again as it did in the last. It has taken away taste, the tongue swollen and filling to the mouth as a meal ought never to be. This piteous odor reeks of ruin and the degenerate, making sick the empty mind and burning eyes to weep.

Sight o’ sight, see for me what I do and take it all for yourself, for the greed in the life of seeing I’ve taken I repay you now with this horror I am beset upon. Take it and rid my vision so that I may have one sense to regain a self of sanity and peace. Do so and I will die comforted and as fading as the sun.

My call, it is not for redemption or revenge, or sacrifice to save, but only salvation of my self.

~Selene Descartes, fifteen minutes before her death

Breath is begun with the inhalation of life-sustaining air given by fair flowers grown mighty, feeding heads that are at all times moments away from starvation. It gives to us movement and strength, wisdom and minds, begetting from these beauty and alternately disgust. It moves the hands to work the arts, and carries in its breadth the resolve to make vast the space man calls place. It is, without doubt, the beginning.

The beginning of which Requiem embraces upon his sudden birth within the center of the city. Rather than grouping with the other forces, his body suddenly appears. Alabaster overcoat blew nosily in the winds, and rosy eyes looked at the guards and citizens that either scattered or darted towards any enemy they could find. Never had he found it within himself to kill for something that wasn't righteously just, but surely had he not found something by that time, he'd never find anything worth fighting for.

The guard's blade strikes his back, but he doesn't flinch. Stumbling forward, he feels the blood of his body trickling down the back, the catalyst to a contained apathy for what he had to do. The right hand whips behind him, and the guards dying screams are reduced to memory. The body is shred to pieces by an invisible force, blown across the entire square while other guards made their way to himself. Soon a glyph of raging fire appeared beneath him, and the eyes of Requiem showed no mercy.

Now he had become a hypocrit. It was only years ago he had hated those who acted and fought in such disputes, and now he had become an administrator of quietus. Rather than channeling selfish rage, he controls himself and summons upon that which he is best at using. Messiah forms within his hand, nothing spectacular but its pearly luminescence and pallid edge being distinctive of its form.

"Goodbye."

[|°ὺ₯₳ↄĸJONES]

There weren't many of them, there never was. Huddled up within the nucleus of the holy mekka were a group of renovatian tacticians; soldat bred especially for espionage campaigns. Though today, they were tasked with protecting the lives of pedestrians with insubstantial support.

A rosinderian accent broke a silence provoked not by consent, but ill fortune; devastating news to be had on the eve of war, such men and women in their shoes should never have to hear.

"So... We're on our own."

"Ain't no point in dwellin' on it. We jus' gotta do what we were told to do and that's that." Brass and forever loyal, the captain of this unit always hoped that this kid rubbed off on his comrades. He was always the more unique individual. He had that stuff hero's were made of, but his career choice placed him on a path many anti-hero's trekked sooner or later.

"Satellite images are in... It doesn't look good."

"We all will die today, though, let us be thankful, and relish the fact that when we do pass on from this physical plane, we leave as warriors with a just cause. Not as cowards or terrorists." His accent was of Damiyra; bold and assured.

The four black walls shook violently, tremors provoked by purged artillery strikes were chaotic, instantly stripping the sense of security from the now fretful and hopeless society. Children within this cube resorted to prayer, and few cried when fear and death came knocking. They had the spirit of Renovatians, surely it would've made Justice proud.

"Recheck your equipment ladies, we're heading out in five minutes."

"Another civilian sweep?"

"No... There isn't anymore room in here... We'll be engaging the enemy."

Spoiler:

[supernal]

Off topic:
The way I wanted to do this originally was have one side post all at once, the other side do the same, and then mix it up from there. But since ya'll be lazing, I talked to Dre and we've agreed to just plow on.

The East offered narrow bridges alongside the full breadth of Nature's fury by way of a roaring waterfall, its drone powerful and incessant. Given the amount merchants, traders, caravans, minstrels and wanderers that passed across the bridges every day, they didn't need reconnaissance to tell them the bridges were watched and patrolled. But they had it.

The West offered vast grasslands broken up by a smattering of hills, though stretches of flat earth were frequent and far-reaching. One such expanse lay between the hills Arthur chose to hide his army and the borders of Nu Jeruxalim. The predictability of coming from the West in an attack so clearly dictated necessities like a thick wall and mounted turrets with sentries spaced evenly between on the wall that they didn't need reconnaissance. But they had it.

They came from the West

The Renovations were under-manned . . . to be expected. They were parasites. Invaders on a body where every cell and iota of the organism set against them. But these ratios were not unique. It had been much the same on the dark day that the Beast set its metal boot upon the back of the motherland's neck to pin her. Rosinder had culture; Renovatio had machines.

That day, one man armed with a Gatling gun did the work of ten swordsmen in a fraction of the time. One of their walking tanks, armed with canon shells and turrets of its own, ravaged a town in the way a feral dog attacks a child. But they were men, or so they claimed.

Arthur continued forward at a light jog and his army followed suit. If Renovatio did not spot them by now, then the thundering of their many feet stampeding across the ground no doubt gave them away. Coupled with the jostle of their flexible and light-weight armor it sounded as if a horde of horsemen approached, rather than a swarm of men.

About halfway to the border of Nu Jeruxalim, the sentries mounted their turrets, took aim and fired. A little before halfway to the border the captain of the archers, the man with exceptional eyes, voiced his concern.

They're moving to man their abominations.

Split into battalions. Battalions split into companies. Bring the ESG's forward and shields up.

Arthur's army, a fraction of total resistance forces, divided itself into three sections and those three sections consequently divided into three more. Men with dark purple cylinders stepped to the front lines, knelt and slung their packs before them. Nine multi-colored spheres bubbled up and joined together, creating colors of darker concentration at the points they made a Venn diagram. These overlapping areas were left completely empty. A single line of soldiers stepped before the men with the cylinders, well within the bounds of the field, and brought their shields up moments before the guns started to fire.

They moved to a heavier jog, but were not yet running. The bullets suffered altered trajectories once passing inside the field, causing them to deflect outwards harmlessly. Those that made it deeper within the field were met by the shields. Those that made it beyond the shields, these instances too rare to enumerate, wound up within the overlapping areas of the field. Again, harming no one.

Overhead an airship exploded, filling the sky with smoke and light and fire; no doubt some of their own lost their lives in that blast, but for the best cause imaginable.

The magic worked both ways. The soldiers dared not fire a single shot of their own, whether arrow or stone or otherwise, so long as they remained within the entropic shield. But every once in a while their forward momentum skipped like a record needle in response to a command shared among them all near-instantly.

Fire the grenades.

These points coincided precisely with gaps from the hail of bullets when the guns threatened to over-heat or needed to be reloaded. The archers stepped forward and launched the anti-tech grenades to any point feasible on the turrets. Blue goo slopped all over the turrets. Any electrical components were instantly fried . . . but let's get serious, it's a gun. And the heat the plasma generated would topple the turrets foundation and neutralize it if it couldn't melt the turret itself.

Once reaching the wall the front line soldiers displayed a high level of intricacy in a small amount of time, as the etiquette of war demanded from them. One soldier was thrown up at a curve while he wielded a piece of chalk and drew a perfect piss yellow arch on the wall. He touched down, two other soldiers touched a white stone and a black stone at either end respectively. The piss yellow turned bright white and exploded inwards with a thunderous crack.

His army swarmed through the hole like a hive of angry hornets.

[odium.]

"Cheryl, huh. Pleasure, as always, of course."

He turned, half expecting the coming of some sort of contingent force approaching. Nothing. Aside from the ants that swept through the streets in panic, no one had confronted him at the heart of their city. Granted there wasn't much time between his arrival and now, Gavin figured there was some sort of color guard. His mind raced, not in panic, but calculating. The cities of Renovatio would have been on high alert, especially after his own meeting with Primus.

"Put him down."

Gavin's eyes shifted to the golem, clear as crystal and cold as its glacial heritage, holding a screaming man in its massive frigid hand. Upon the command, it became lifeless, dropping the man to the street below.

"... What the hell is this?"

From behind the sanctuary of a skyscraper, it came. Blades whipping the air in tumultuous whirlwind around him, sweeping people from their feet and littering the air with trash from the city. It was a blackbird, one hell of a thing at that, this helicopter. Outfitted with missiles and miniguns, clearly not out on an exercise. A billowing noise spilled from the loudspeaker, it cut through the wind and Gavin could hear it clearly.

"Intruder, exit the city at once or be met with force."

From a slightly crouched position, Gavin smirked, his hands gripped tight to the cloak wrapped about him. Squinting his eyes, he pointed to his ear and shook his head. Perhaps they would get the reference... or even the sarcasm that it implied.

"Leave the city, this is your last warning."

Obviously they didn't understand, so another gesture was applied in its place, more vulgar than its predecessor and depicted his intentions clearly. With furrowed brows, hand and subsequent finger lowered before giving the signal. This helicopter, a force to be reckoned with, was flying low and perhaps these Renovatians underestimated what magic and alchemy were capable of. Grenades that exploded purple ooze coated the thing, several furry men still tossing off pineapples in its direction as the bird reeled in mid-air, turned, and finally spilled into the side of a building.

"Now that's an explosion I can be proud of."

Beneath his cloak, Gavin drew a tome. It was thick, its pages were old and discolored, the thing looked dilapidated. Then his mind wandered back to Cheryl.

"Hello, doll. And brother. We're green, waiting for your gold before we turn this city black."

Knowing the nature of her disposition, Gavin didn't expect Cheryl to respond, however, he was more than ready for word from Arthur... or even Brand by proxy.

[paradigm]

There was no safe place in Nu Jeruxalim. There citizens who had hunkered down in cellars and basements and they might survive the hour, but they would die nevertheless. His time in the military had served him well, at least in the operation of Renovatio's technology.

The massive mechanized suit rolled across the ground, passing over debris and corpses alike without any difficulty. Caern put pressure on a handle and the Heavy Armor came to a halt. The mechs pilot had died long before reaching his machine and Caern took the moment to latch onto his only chance of survival.

Unlike many of the others fighting and dying, Caern's reasons for fighting were purely selfish and had nothing to do with his pride as a native of Renovatio, nor was it coin that drove him (a rarity, to be sure). What motivated Caern was the instinctive need to survive, the desire to die with the blood of every last foe upon his blade.

The massive machine took to the air with a leap that belied it's size and landed atop a nearby rooftop. An oversized blade of primal alloy was clutched in it's vice-like grip. This machine had been built to wreck shit and in the hands of Caern it was capable of that and so much more.

Incandescent energy sparked to life within pale sockets, tendrils of power clawing past flesh to spread entirely over Caern's form. The cockpit hissed and popped with energy, the hum of equipment filling the mercenary's ears.

Locating the enemy wasn't difficult at all. Retrace the steps of the fleeing citizens, exploding helicopter, monkeys? Well, he'd heard these Rosinder folk were a bit primitive...but damn. Energy exploded out from his ethereal form and coursed along the massive primal alloy blade clutched in the mech's grip.

A simple movement of the blade and the sky erupted...or so it would appear to a battalion of charging soldiers. The unknown diagrams were constructed of several runes and before any could dare verify their existence with a glance a pillar of energy cascaded upon them.

"Game on..."


(Phone post is phone, sorry it's taken so long :/)

[Reign]

The earth trembled as war approached Nu Jeruxalim. As forgotten as it might have seemed by Renovatio— and rest assured it had been mostly forsaken at this point —the stagnant air that sunk over the landscape carried a solemn sense of foreboding for the approaching 'liberators' of Rosinder.

From darkness he waited.

He stared onward into nothingness awaiting one of those ever-lusted moments of motivation, of risk and loss. Somethin' that he found himself seekin' at nearly every corner. Yet not one had delivered.

The rumble that shook the earth as armies traversed the plains was a roar from where he stood. His heart rate paced himself to the drums of war that feed the blood through his veins and the oxygen through his lungs. This stray dog felt nothing but a rabid sense of hunger. Whatever threw itself half-wittedly into his path would be struck down like the gimp rodent it was. This wasn't about victory, nor was it about defendin' some derelict colony in a country he didn't really give a flyin' fuck about. This was about gettin' his. The flat, emotionless gaze sat illuminated by the whipping, almost fluid tendrils of green against the frozen, white complexion framing them.

The relatively short man, practically unimpressive given his stature, was nearly the only source of light in the corridor of darkness that awaited the rallying call to summon them into the throes of battle. Whatever else lingered and massed around him could only barely be made out by the faded silhouettes of gray, black, and the slightest tint of green. The occasional thunderous explosion from afar only fed the primal soldiers in wait, both figuratively and literally.

A city left pretty much entirely to its fate had summoned the few of Reno's greatest warmongers to its banner, just for a taste of takin' somethin' they had to really fight for. Hell, he couldn't really speak for everyone, but he knew that's why he was here. He'd found that he was, more often than not, simply handed things. They might have not knowingly done so, but when countless hordes of homos throw themselves on your sword by the sole virtue of suckin' ass, it might as well get chalked up the same.

[supernal]

Arthur brazenly led the way into the city proper. Eyes alight with the flame of indignation and yet his body never once suffered for lack of form. Elegant strides rushed him across the battle field. What resistance they met was markedly nominal. Arthur kicks a man in the chest and it dents his armor in, causing his sternum to crack and cave in, crashing against vital organs and sending him flying across the ground. From long before the moment where the men crashed through a wall, he is dead.

The sound of death fills the air around him. Metal clanging futilely against metal, or metal passing effortlessly through flesh and sinew, followed swiftly by the dry crack of bone as it is splintered or cleaved. These sounds came from behind because Arthur never once stopped moving forward. And from behind, he could not tell whose men died. When drawing their last, rattling breath all men tended to sound the same.

The next soldier to rise to the occasion, letting the keen of his blade aim to fall swiftly on Arthur's unprotected neck, found the blade put to the side by the brutish shove of a shield. The force so strong that it took more of his might than he cared to admit for that nameless Renovation soldier to keep the sword from flying away. It nearly lifted him off his feet.

Arthur maneuvered the sword as if it weighed nothing simply because, to him, it weighed nothing. It slipped through one of the sweet spots on the man's armor, where necessity demanded a hinge or pivot so that one achieved a reasonable amount of mobility. Through the soldier's side and into his chest. Blood streamed down the blade, dripped to the ground and darkened the dirt.

"Imagine your loved ones. You'll find neither mercy nor pity in these eyes."

Unfathomable black shrouded his eyes as if a thunderstorm brewed in that gaze. A menacing vibrato filled the air, sounding so akin to the symphony of the undead that no soldier on that battlefield could ignore the chill touch of death laid on his shoulders. Arthur place his hands on the soldier's chest; a seam splits down the middle of the soldier's back as his body convulses in what could only be described as ecstasy.

Arthur tossed the body behind like the piece of trash it was, the corpse glowing a sickly green that infected the rest of the corpses to be found in that field of massacres, completely ignoring what flag the cadavers chose to ride under. Whoever they were before, they were now his.

Arthur's body trembled only slightly with the force of exertion. The bodies on the ground stirred with unnatural life, rose to their feet, and began to attack those they once called brother and sister with a level of savagery only associable with the living dead. Senseless hunger and unending endurance made for a horrible mix.

By now the difference in numbers between sides could no longer be ignored. The colors of Rosinder flashes of red and gold, royal blues and lush purples, soon overpowered the themes of their enemies. Arthur paused, the necromantic blight weeping from his eyes as he cast his sight about freely, taking note of the ice giants that toyed with the Renovation's lives before crushing their heads between block-like teeth.

Bright light filled the air. Arthur gave the command before his eyes even fully adapted to what dangers rushed his way.

"Spellboxes!" His voice thundered above the roar that Caern's pillar of energy made. "Energy sink, pentacle formation!"

Five soldiers shifted along the ground to form a pentacle and removed small, white boxes from among their resistance gear. They cast their lights into the sky, interceding the energy's path, first one and then another and then another until all five stacked to form a thing of pure, beautiful intricacy.

The beam thrashed against it, the whole foundation of the city trembled for a few seconds, but it ended there. The intricate spell-circle hung in the sky pregnant with energy, its geometric angles shimmering with vigor.

Something crashed against Caern's behemoth machine with enough force not only to lift it from the ground, but to shove it into a building and bring a portion of the edifice crashing down on the mech. Arthur pulled himself from the rubble, shield and sword up, eyes alert as they wait for the thing to rise again.

[paradigm]

By now the mercenary's form was coated in a thick membrane of dark mana energy enveloping his nose and mouth into a faceless monstrocity. Two perfect circles of light peered out at the soldiers' approach. His attack...they had negated it? Either way it did not have the desired effect. These Rosinder bastards didn't know when to die. The grenade cannon on his arm hummed and prepare to obliterate the enemy, but Caern's world was shaken to it's core, sending a stream of smoke off into the distance a large grenade in the lead. Despite the sudden nature of the attack and Caern having been caught off guard, the fell knight bounced back quickly. Freeing itself from the rubble the massive machine stepped forward crushing stone, granite and marble beneath it's heavily armored foot.

When Caern came face-to-mech face with his attacker, genuine shock took him, but did not stall him. Caern's orbs of light didn't believe what they were seeing.

"Arhur Terces?" Caern's voice was sharp with surprise and disbelief as he brought the massive blade down upon the man, prepared to cleave the bastard rebel in twain. "Well idn't this just a daisy! ARTHUR FUCKING TERCES, ALIVE!...but not for long" His voice was grainy over the intercom, but he could still be heard clearly nevertheless.

So Arthur Terces lived, eh? Well this was too rich, too magnificent! To think that Caern would go down in history as the man who laid Rosinder's Champion to waste. Why Renovatio would surely throw a parade in his honor! Glory, accolade, BULLION GALORE and more bitches than he could shake a stick at. DIE TERCES! DIE!

[King]

Arthur and Gavin were not the only Terces to walk this battlefield, and Brandon was far from letting his dear siblings take all of the glory.

He was not the first to stain Jeruxalim's land with the blood of her children; he would certainly not be among the last. While Arthur led their troops in the assault of Nu Jeruxalim, Brandon remained amidst the battle's chaotic heart. His resolve was concrete, as was the conviction in each swing of his mighty Halberd. The seemingly dull blades sundered armor and flesh indiscriminately, sheering entire limbs from the bodies of his adversaries. One of those severed limbs erupted into a thick spray of blood and gore onto his face, leaving a bitter, almost metallic, taste in his mouth. But he didn't stop.

Instead, he continued his ruthless assault. The weapons of Jeruxalim's soldiers - their swords, their axes, their maces and even their shields - could not withstand the ferocity of Brandon's preternaturally empowered blows; they merely crumbled like dry leaves in a strong, summer breeze, or like the earth during the strongest of its quakes.

There was one man who did not heed the warning of his injured comrades, and brazenly attacked the young Terces. His swing was powerful, but wide and slow; he also wore a shield and angled it to defend against any counter attacks. Unfortunately, it would be of little use. Apollo seemed to flash with satisfaction as it crashed into the shield, burrowing a hole through both it and the man who brandished it and sending the corpse hurling backward.

The next, having witnessed the brutality, was far more careful in his approach. However, Brandon took notice and struck him down quickly. With a powerful sweep, the armored knight of Jeruxalim was cut clean in half. His twitching remains were then trampled by both former kin and enemies alike, having been reduced to nothing more than another casualty.

He was not alone. There would be many more on this eve that would follow him to their graves.

[supernal]

Arthur wandered back steadily, lifting his leg to step over debris at precise interval and guiding himself around buildings as if he had eyes on the back of his head. The notion of the elder Terces being gifted for combat was neither uncommon nor untrue. This particular aptitude for terrain, however, came at the expense of staring at a map of Nu Jeruxalim until his eyes hurt. Arthur knew the city than did most of its natives; this was the key to toppling the infantile thrown of a puerile king.

Caern sped forward by virtue of mechanical impulse. Arthur squinted, strained slightly to keep his eyes ahead of Caern and afford himself enough time to hink and act. He stepped forward with the left foot, sank an inch into the ground and pitched his sword forward. It hit Caern's path with enough force to shift the ground so that when Caern rushed him, it lifted the heavy machine a few inches off the ground.

The machine's sword came down and Arthur's shield-arm rose up. He grit his teeth moments before impacted; the shield dented in with the strike Caern set against Arthur but went no further. Once pressing against Arthur's arm, it gave no more. The shield was never meant to be used as a barrier in-and-of-itself. It was meant to act the role of a thin barrier whose sole purpose was to keep the sharp vector of a sword from slicing his arm but lending nothing to his defenses that he did not already posses.

The ground buckled beneath the heft of Caern's blow; the already uneven ground sprouted more angles. Arthur acted as a medium for the transference of that tremendous force without breaking a sweat.

Inhale. The ground sank in again as he bore his strength down on it and dug his feet into the ground, providing him with enough traction that he didn't have to lean forward. Then shot off like a racehorse. Slammed into Caern's slighty elevated leg and heaved it up into the air to upset the thing's balance. Even though they offended God, they could not question His laws.

The sword's handle fit into his hand. He jumped and flung the metal stick behind him with practiced ease, years of practiced ease, to have it meet brusquely with the leg joint of the mech's remaining leg. Arthur landed and skid across the ground, tearing up the cobblestone underfoot and leaving behind a furrowed path.

He shook his arm and threw off the mangle of metal that was once a shield.

"There are some of us that God destines for glory. Others for ruin. The winds have changed daughter of Renovatio, the rightful king has come to claim his throne.

"Get out of that tin can and fight me like a man."

The war raged around them, but Caern and Arthur fought alone.

[absolution]

When all light fades and the wisps of smoke escape his presence, there is a lone silhouette in the city—surrounded by chaos.

There is a readout of information, a final transmission, and this monolith steps from its mantle. Concrete crunches beneath its mammoth feet like loose dirt, each step is a grating of mechanical parts—a hymn of pistons and hisses of steam jets upon its closure. Men run wild in the streets, screaming their valedictions or warcries—whatever the case may be—damning or praising the names of Rosinder and Renovatio.

"All Primal units report in.

"This is Adders-Erros; sync on my mark. Converge on the largest groups of hostiles and disperse their numbers."

A man who was all too machine. The suit stood some nine feet in height, its lifeless helmet's t-shaped visor scouring the city's streets. His internal heating cores were starting to heat up, an unseen smile crossed his obscured features.

Twin sets of steel wings opened at his back, screaming jets of warped air escaped their vents in an outburst. The result was a shockwave, like the cry of a primal beast ready to make for war. Sword clashed methodically against shield and the Templar welcomed Rosinderites with open arms.

[|°ὺ₯₳ↄĸJONES]

Hearing the voice of comrade was reassuring, and unsullied anew confidence, even within the individuals who made up some of the elite sects of their scattered legion.

"Triangulating... 80 meters north, Captain."

"Sol, link me the satellite images you downloaded a minute ago."

"Yes sir. Images sent."

The captain's battle scared face bathed in the ambiance of soft hues of blue-purples cast by the HUD installed within his state of the art helm. Data streamed within several windows he had open, ones and zeros, millions upon millions of ones and zeros.

When the images uploaded, you would've thought the obstacles between them and Adders-Eros were jacked from an old school Gladiator set, minus the Olympianesque gladiators. Things far worse the PED abusing humes.

For every airship that fell, ebon, viscus clouds of miasma would engulf ten meter diameters unwaveringly, even when the most violent of gusts present itself. Those caught up in the miasma's rapture would be rendered inept forevermore were they trapped within it long enough. Ailments such as critical fatigue and depleted willpower, compelling individuals to submit— Rosinderians and Renovatians both.

Spiritual energy, the arcane, the uncanny; all would be devoured within minutes; seconds would deplete a substantial amount, enough to make soldiers and civilians walk around like the zombies Arthur created, and the zombies that wandered off into the clouds would simply fall back to their graves— were it a sidewalk, street or an abandoned building.

"Prestige reporting... Thats a negative! It's not looking too good for my party, Adders-Eros... It'll probably take us... twenty to thirty minutes to rendezvous with you." the sounds of agonizing screams and building's foundations crumbling were muffled whenever Prestige fell silent. "too much miasma and enemy units... Steer clear of the mias—

An explosion erupted with volcanic fury, an evident sign of friendly fire. The comm connection between two were canceled. Signs of ECM failure were logical aside from instant death by those on their side.