Nu Jeruxalim falls [closed]

[supernal]

The war beat on to its natural rhythm. Beyond a doubt the Renovations were out-numbered. Arguably, they were outclassed. Unfortunately this was not the circumstance in which anything could be proved because this leg of the grand skirmish was bloodshed. All soldiers wore their own, hand-carved mask of bravery that fitted neatly over a mask of fear.

The Rosindarians, though exercising mercy in scant amounts and fighting savage all the while, were not bereft a sense of internal honor or humanity. They did not go around mercilessly slaughtering children. And as this was a culture around which revolved war as a principle tenet, and participation in the Academy that bred their soldiers granted one with the inheritable accolade of Sir, neither did they draw out the slaughter of a family nor did they act wantonly towards the women. The most hostile of any age or gender were murdered outright. The more passive ones herded out of the city in droves, into the waiting arms of the lesser trained to be marched across the border and back from the rat-hole they were born in.

Inside the city, the Rosindarians spread like wildfire. Or like the ocean tides crashing against unwilling shores. Rampaged through the town like an infectious diseases. Everywhere one cared to listen, there could be heard the sound of singing steel, spilling blood, or crunching bone. They did not leave unscathed. Enough Rosindarians died this day that they'd have to open a mass grave and hold a ceremony in light, commemorating the event for one night before burning it from the annals of history forever. Their directives were clear there as well; Renovatio was not only to be destroyed, it was to be forgotten. The worst and most perverse insult one country can levy against the other.

That, however, was the grander scheme of things. The battle as it played out on a larger scale, and in the heat of war either side could furnish a hero. Perhaps not enough to turn the winds of fortune but enough, surely, to leave a permanent mark across Rosinder's face.

Many such battles were concurrently occurring. Arthur and Caern. On a lesser scale, Requiem and Kazuma. Adders-Eros, absolution, levied against the artifices and eventually the man Gavin terces, who liked too much to sin. A few other names in the hat but they hadn't found their dates just yet.

The souped of sons of Rosinder, still high off of Caern's initial burst, punched through stabilizing beams and urged buildings to fall; crushed skulls in their bare hands, swung men around like rag dolls, and suffered many a cut and gash for it. They bled but didn't care.

Arthur jumped to his feet like a cat. He breathed hard, but more with the force it took to restrain himself than the wind-down of exhaustion. Caern got a clean shot off. The chunk of stone that Caern hefted his way smashed Arthur across the face and swept him off his feet, even as the thing turned to bits of debris around his face and crumbled to the ground he skid along. But again he rose to his feet, quick and limber. He bled, a stream of it down his nose and the corner of his mouth but both were quickly healing and Arthur was angrier.

"COME ON! COME ON YOU COWARD!"
Arthur rushed forward and upped the ante. He was suddenly slipping in and out of vision. He appeared at many different angles, vantages, and elevations. The only thing that could be said about his progress was that it was forward because, with every blink in and out of perception, he drew ever closer to Caern. Arthur bent at the knees and jumped into the air, appeared suddenly just below and in front of Caern, and took them both up. A ring of dust billowed up from the ground as he launched them skyward.

He scrambled to the top, spun, and delivered a devastating kick to Caern's face.

[Reign]

oday was an unlucky day for the man standin' at the end of Kazuma's scope. And Requiem's would end up cut short. For a man of any kind to charge into the Kazuma's path, they'd have to deal with the rather thin string of patience that presently held two hundred tons of unchecked impatience. After all, and Kazuma had in fact double checked, the best way to make most of his fee for today was to finish the ordeal off as quickly as possible. With Renovatio in disarray, he'd have bigger fish in mind than chumps beneath his feet on some battlefield in the middle of archaic hick-country.

His pace was steady, measured, surprisingly given his impulsive nature. He walked and continued to dispatch the occasional stragglin' soldier who happened to be have the misfortune of stepping too close to the rabid, unleashed animal. In every instance it was swift, given without thought, and often hardly acknowledged by the dealer himself. His attention had seemed to remain forward upon the only man who appeared to pursue Kazuma directly.

As the halberd approached, the thin tendrils of green dancin' against his left eye fluttered more frequently, whipping and tossing about like the light had taken on a life of it's own. And by the time the beastly weapon actually arrived, his left arm had extended to grip it within his fingertips; the blade passin' just between the armored, jagged fingertips that curled against its handle. The very air around the young man had gone dry, stale, as though something had been sucking the very energy from it with every inch he covered.

His fist clenched, spinnin' the halberd against the palm of his hand before plantin' it unforgivingly into some random soldier's left leg. Both the weapon and the man's leg were pinned nearly four feet beneath the surface of the bloodied and war-torn soil.

The arrow, were it actually fired, was of no consequence. A vicious and seemingly unpredictable headwind ripped most of the span between Requiem and the white-haired Renovatian; the air itself tossed and turned at his will to make any such aerodynamic tools entirely useless.

[paradigm]

The events to follow were too quick for Caern to keep up with. The ethereal energy that had protected him for so long as rapidly beginning to lose it's splendor, ebbing down to a soft glow that clung to his form. The kick was devastating, to say the least, and saw Caern firmly affixed in the dirt. The force of Arthur's boot shattered the energy mask. Shards of energy fell around Caern's form and quickly dissipated into the earth, leaving the mercenary in nothing more than the garb he wore inside the mech.

There were almost no options left to him now. His life was fading, a necessary trade off of utilizing such techniques, but he was typically capable of finding refuge and recovering before immediate harm could come to his person. It seemed that the legend of Arthur Terces was not just a story. Caern was a far cry from any elite Renovatian, a mere mercenary...it didn't matter now, his tale was unimportant. All that mattered was that he died in defense of his country; a noble end, in Caern' eyes. And for a man who had spent the better part of his life wallowing in decadent and unsavory work, a noble end was more than enough.

"They'll get you..." He whispered, his eyelids fighting to stay open. "I'll be waiting...in hell..."

It had occurred to him, moments before kissing the dirt, that there were very few options left to him. Given that Terces was not the kind to let any Renovatian who opposed him walk away and also taking into to account the fact that Caern could not have bared the shame of playing the coward, there was only one thing left to do.

With all of the life force that he could muster, Caern prepared for his last moment. The dark energy welled up within the Fell Knight sapping what little life remained within. Caern's body turned to dust and fell away leaving behind an orb of purest onyx, pulsating with his life. The resulting explosion was deafening.

[supernal]

Arthur floated in the air. Mind you that he still fell, but did so at a rate just slightly slower than a regular man should and he managed to enjoy the sight of Caern smashing face-first into the dirt. The spray of blood, that vulgar display of Caern's utter mortality and the realization of his fragile being, brought a smile to Arthur's face. Because for all of his decorum, of the knight's honor that so tightly bound him and dictated his actions, in war-time he was a beast, his hunger phenomenal.

The words floated up, squirmed pleasantly through his ears and tickled his brain. Inspired his smile.

"You'll be waiting for a long time!" Arthur called out boldly, cupped his hands around his mouth to make sure that Caern could hear it through the sound of his skull sinking into itself.

Just then a grim shawl of lividity shrouded Arthur's face. Fear in the face of the noxious energy that grew in his foe's chest and consumed him? Possible. A physiological response that his body had adopted after years spent in back-breaking and rigorous study and practice of the dark arts? Much more likely. Arthur's brow furrowed, his smile vanished and was instantly replaced by a thin, straight line and he angled himself downward.

Arthur suddenly rocketed towards the ground, either pushed or pulled by some unseen but undoubtedly potent force, his body eager to meet the fringe of the rushing explosion. His silhouette was immediately consumed and lost to the volatile ink. The chaos to follow was impressive. Buildings fractured and crumpled to the ground in heaps of rubble, turning to particles finer than dust before they even got a chance to settle against the floor.

There was no fire, and hence there was no smoke, but a certain foul stench and sordid mist hung thick in the air. All around was mayhem. Follow the pain back to its point of origin and one finds a smoldering crater, deep and wide, and a single man rising from it. He stood with one leg on the very lip of the crater, the jammed into the ground in an improvised foothold and gray eyes surveying the scene.

Most of his clothes were gone, save the most modest brunt of his pants, but his shirt was no more than strips and tatters, his shoes melted halfway on his foot and halfway off it, but the circlet he wore perfectly preserved and still polished. Arthur looked about. It was not all of the town, but Caern had made a decent dent. Both sides, no doubt, suffered casualties.

One had to wonder who Caern hurt the most, Rosinder or Renovatio. This made Arthur smile again; another notch on his bedpost.

He rose fully from the crater, rubble falling from his foot before he placed it on solid ground. Charred black.

Gavin.

The message went to Cheryl, and Cheryl re-routed it to Gavin; fractions of a second for delay, too negligible to mean anything for this level of communication.

It's time.

[|°ὺ₯₳ↄĸJONES]

Nu Jeruxalim was lost, no matter how anyone felt about it. Archaic structures collapsed under their own weight with violent explosions that to shook fine dust from tawdry stone and marble. It was a disaster to behold, and as Llanso took it all in, the greatest sense of loss overwhelmed that fickle Hume heart of his. It was the first time he had witnessed his vainglorious nation succumb to defeat. It was the worse feeling in the world, and surely his father would reassure him that even the greatest of men are defeated every now and then. But Llanso wouldn't accept that, he dreaded the idea of imperfection. In the Prodigal child's eyes, the concept of failure was blasphemous.

"Everyone!—"

He bit his tongue, fighting the urge to say what was needed to be said. He felt weak for the first time in his life. It was to hard to accept the reality of their situation.

"Fall back!"

Common sense got the best of him this time. He knew there was no point in making more widows when victory was no where in arms reach. If he could return home with a fraction of the soldiers he was stationed here with, he'd be satisfied even though the fact that they failed struck him deeply.

Adder Eros was now in his sights, but it didn't matter, for another violent explosion rocked Nu Jeruxalim's foundation. Such a force so great toppled the boy, causing dirt to smear all over his perfect face and golden mane. He felt despicable staring at the clouds while laying flat on his back. His vision blurred, his head throbbing, all the while, thinking about how these freedom fighters knew how to rub shit in the opposition's face.

Ace of Spades was swinging back around, he could hear it getting closer and closer. All he had to do now was get up so they could find him, which was definitely easier said than done.

"Llanso! We're coming back around! Be ready to hop in 'cause we ain't landing.

Few ships were spared, some landing to pick up fragments of units while others burned and crashed into holy buildings and insignificant structures.

[Inception]

The bolt of spiritual power that shot towards his opponent was caught in a web of whipping winds, soon flung into an abandoned building that would soon found collapse. The world was crumbling, the stage that had been set was slowly breaking away. If a battle was to commence, it would have to be quick, otherwise they'd both be buried in the rubble of a glorious warzone. Requiem took a simple glance towards the holy angel that chanted idly, and then charged towards Kazuma without any intention of stopping. The hand and the bow that it wielded reeled backwards, and several bolts of spiritual power shot from its forefront, thundering into the general vicinity of Kazuma. They were aimed at every part of his body, but it obviously wasn't a true attack, only something to do in his approach.

The halberd that rested in the ground dissolved at his own will, just intime for the finale. There was no mercy for the wicked, no sympathy for a devil. It was time to end the battle. The threshold between the two was crossed, and if his foe hadn't done anything that would change his approach or actions in any way, a single bolt amassed in the bow within his right hand while his left shot towards the face of Kazuma. However his recklessness was questionable, it seemed he was charging with an intent to be struck, countered, or to even die. Whether Kazuma noticed this and fell for it or not, was all a choice of his own mind.

[Reign]

teadfast and unwavering, Kazuma maintained his pace. He was clearly in no hurry and this man seemed hellbent on makin' a show of it. He'd oblige and offer his services as best as he could, though he doubted this `Requiem` would be content when all was said and done. As the bolts lunged through the air toward him, the head wind that had now built simply shifted, driving many of them down into the dirt between them. If in fact they caused as much damage as the first one seemed to indicate, then visibility between them would be reduced to nearly zero. It certainly didn't help that each spiritual bolt that had been drawn would find less and less energy at its disposal to form as each step drew the two men closer.

The alleged finale would fall incredibly short as this opponent of his literally ran in blind— the very fabric of the arcane, the mana that fed it, seemed completely void as the ten meter threshold was crossed. Requiem's left hand gripped at nothing, and his right waved aimlessly at an opponent he couldn't see. What happened next? Time would tell.

[Inception]

The world was silent for a moment, atleast to Requiem in his charge. The spiritual accumulation that was once abundant faded, and with that he would have to make his move ahead of time. His very essence was switched with that of a chanting angel that begun to remove itself. Requiem and the angel’s positions switched with a single blinding light, and following that glorious light was an explosion channeled by the words that angel spoke. It’s very body detonated and everything within fifty meters was showed in rushing spiritual power, eroding everything within that stated vicinity.

Requiem tapped the ground beneath him and was shot onto the top of a toppling structure, maneuvering from the battlefield. The plan, atleast to him, had been a matter of stalling the obviously skilled being. Were this being to have been allowed to reach the likes of Arthur and the others, it would have created fatal problems to the war that they fought so admirably for. Approximately fifty five meters from where the angel exploded, and the battlefield itself, he leapt back once more and landed atop one of the few buildings still standing for a few seconds.

“More dangerous than I thought…my power faded around him…who is that?”

[desolate]

The creaking of wheels, the bubbling of cauldrons, the somber sighs of horses and the hushed whispers of robed figures, all sounds that were elevated even above the clamor of battle. Slowly were the wagons drawn behind the advancing soldiers of the Resistance and their slaughter; gouts of foul steam rose from enormous black pots flanked by hooded mages, their hands waving and tongues weaving. The aura about them was implacably malign.

The Resistance did not slay children, but some children were worth slaying. These had reached the age of reason. Their crimes were unforgivable without sacrifice. Crying boys, a shameful sight that would never be witnessed in a strong nation like Rosinder, were gathered into the wagon by those shady enigmas; girls were trampled beneath horse and wagon, for the blood of their passive sex was too weak to fuel their salvation. Only death was the appropriate measure for their ilk.

From their sable coats were drawn beacons of hope, shining, curved, sharp enough to cut through any sin—through any neck. One by one, the boiling ingredients were ensorcelled with the blood of conquerors, spilled from the jugular. Their bodies, boys finally transformed into worthy men through atonement, were gently laid to rest atop the corpses of their friends and families.

And as knives disappeared and silence reigned, vapor curled, twisted, writhed, became ghastly things, shapes blurred by the fragile conscious mind that caused even hardened veterans of war to focus wholly on the massacre at hand, for it was a pleasant activity in comparison.

Shrill, nightmarish, the conjurations rose, the vaguest sensation of beating wings and the roaring of a tornado accompanying the fear that they were moving, scavenging, destroying.

For a moment, there would be obfuscation, a wonder of some dying man staring, awed, as an airship, a building, or a comrade disappeared within a bleak cloud, then fell away, crumbling with all that remained of his sanity.

Dust, not bodies, not debris, was left behind. Scathing dust and the cold tide of despair that, when the fighting spiraled down from its climax into that mixture of pride and regret, caused each soldier to huddle together in a moment of silence.

Silence.

Nu Jeruxalim had not only fallen, but it had been erased; better a void within Rosinder than the taint of Renovatio, even if it had been at the cost of an unspeakable, unthinkable sorcery.

When men looked for answers, there were none to be had. There were no wagons, no magi, and if anyone could have their way, no memory of what transpired.

But a titan was not meant to indulge in the sympathies of men.

Hunched, garbed in flowing black, the lone magus climbed atop a hill overlooking what could never be described as a battlefield, and hissed in Arthur's ear,

"Praise to Ophion,"

and it was finished.

[supernal]

Caern and Arthur had put on a show. One of such deadly diligence that it cost the Renovation mercenary his life and honor, and that left Arthur black, blue, and a little purple. But such a thing was minor, Arthur thought, when put up against the greater scheme of what was yet accomplished. It hurt, but what was pain? Truly?

Not one broken bone since childhood. Sprained tendons were another matter entirely but rare as well. His body tended towards healing fast. Even the nasty cut Caern gave him was already scabbed over but, trained both in the art of necromancy and in the utter self-discipline of monasticism, one had to wonder if Arthur did not intervene on his own behalf.

Cheryl, the main hub of telepathic activity on behalf of Rosinder's armed forces, disseminated the information that Arthur relayed to Gavin. The captains then isolated their battalion's Summoners and repeated information that Cheryl superimposed directly onto their hippocampi. The captains were able to call from memory the details of a complicated summoning ritual they never learned as if they'd read the book themselves. Better even. Those with no practical magical knowledge or ability conveyed concepts outside of their own understanding.

They gathered their ingredients, packed their knives, and towed their cauldrons. It was time.

Arthur boldly stalked through the streets of Nu Jeruxalim. The surrounding noise was phenomenal, the heavy silence interrupted every few seconds by the thunderous sound of cannon fire. Sound that crashed against him like the ocean surf. Sometimes the ground vibrated as subsonic sounds rushed through; sometimes clouds of dust, shaken off buildings, settled to the ground; sometimes the world bucked, as if the heart of the city itself was seizing up. But Arthur always landed on straight legs and continued his march forward.

Somewhere along the way Arthur had procured for himself a bland sword and shield. The design pegged it as coming from Renovatio, and pointed to Arthur having picked it from a corpse. As he walked about Arthur studied the armaments. These fools knew nothing of the supreme work. So enamored by technologique that they knew nothing of craft. It handled like a bag of garbage.

Anyone that held a weapon and did not wear the colors of Rosinder or respond to the watchword was dispatched without question. The weaponless were left alone. Sniveling men and women, bawling children and the like, were ferried out of the city. But if a woman held a dagger she was as much a threat as a man; a child with a gun deadlier than either.

At some point it went from brilliant reprisal to merciless persecution. As he spied more and more of his native emblem Arthur knew he was watching the tides of war shift in real-time. He spotted the Summoners and was reminded of his own duty. Though they were in a league all their own, sleepless years spent in the fine study of the deeper mysteries, Arthur's natural talent for necromancy was shaped and sharpened in the Academy and in this their powers and knowledge aligned.

Arthur grabbed a child by the collar, the boy reminding him so much of himself as a child, and slit his throat. Bled him dry. And with the flick of a wrist sent the blood flying into the central nexus the Summoners formed, a volatile sphere that twisted and churned with something foul.

By what means Arthur had come across so ancient and powerful a ritual no one knew. But he had nonetheless and no one questioned it.

Then there shot into the sky a bolt of unique color, so crimson lorded over the streets and repelled the shadows for a moment. It rained blood. The next few moments confounded them all. The beating of wings, buffeting winds, fear so deep and sudden that it electrified the air, followed by a pulse that carried on the wind and mystified them.

Blobs of living ink enveloped buildings or tanks or men and left behind dust.

By the time the dust settled and the noise ebbed away Arthur stood on a hill, observing what remained. The wasteland of human dignity. There was nothing left. It looked as if nature had been allowed to grow here, untouched, since the dawn of time.

No one would remember Nu Jeruxalim. It'd be worse for the citizen of the ghost town, a year of their lives wiped clean off the slate, while the soldiers mourned only a few hours and had been warned prior.

"To Ophion." Arthur's dead words and stiff tone too carried far on a breeze. He looked down at his hands; even the child's blood vanished. Then he turned his back to a new dawn and walked away.

[end thread].

[supernal]

Synopsis

A year and a half ago Renovatio invaded Rosinder, taking the long-established monarchy by surprise by way of advanced technology and, what to this day Rosinder natives claim and have gone to execution for, 'cowardly tactics'. The first half of the era following occupation by Renovatio was marked by a time of relative quiet. The people were broken and tired; they just wanted to sleep and be left alone. Renovatio complied and contended itself with marring the Rosinder landscape with flying castles and mechanical weaponry.

The second half was marked by periods of brief but intense rebellion, the two most notable incidents being the destruction of Xevn, a massive tower built in Rosinder, and the Fall of the Geryon, a air-ship prison that hadn't touched ground since the day it took off until the day it was brought down.

Da'eor is proven to be no more than an illusion by a group of misguided but well-meaning vigilantes. Nonetheless the information gathered from the event, and the distraction provided by the vigilante group is the precursor to the Resistance's most decisive strike.

The Battle of Nu Jeruxalim.

It begins with Arthur Terces leading an army in a march against Nu Jeruxalim, Renovatio's forces distracted by Gavin's abrupt introduction of various deadly beasts into the heart of the city. The army breaches the walls and they infiltrate the city. Blood flows constantly. Many are killed.

A sinister ritual is put into place and Nu Jeruxalim becomes dust.

The Battle of Nu Jeruxalim lasted from dusk till dawn, acting both as a flagstone of the Revolution and shining example of Rosinder's war-time ability. However the Battle of Nu Jeruxalim cannot be found in any history book nor is it spoken of by any people, because none remember it but one.

Arthur Terces.

Special mention:
1. Arthur vs Caern.