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-Malice- last won the day on January 10 2018

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About -Malice-

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  • Birthday 11/11/1985

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  1. Often woe is wrought not in war, but instead the plans which precede it Looming above the Abyssal Enclave, as though some great storm spilling across the mountains, Irkalla was a formidable sight, for any who could pierce its halo of churning soot and smog, a blazing bastion, whose veins bled smouldering flame in place of blood. This enormous edifice was a marvel of engineering, a behemoth measuring over a mile across from buttress to belly, whose bulk lay perpetually suspended in the air, through nefarious magic, or some said, the sheer force of will of its owner. Stationed within this structure, the Barbed Legion were a force unlike any other on Valucre, a cavalcade of horrors from another plane, whose forms were fleshed from the nightmares of man, as even the meekest of their footsoldiers resembled a red-skinned daemon of yore. Despite their appearance, however, or the propensity one might assign to them for violence, these creatures were not beset by chaos, as was often the want of warriors when not in battle, but instead bound by regiment and routine, a duty dictated by their Warlord, who snared their souls within his maw. Life within Irkalla then, much like its sister fortress Ubshu, was one of measured Malice, an existence of training and tribulation which shaped their society into one of martial might above all else, for from the first moment new creatures clawed their way from the birthing pits, they suffered, and grew strong. Ibishma emerged that morn, much as thousands had before it, and thousands would again, a soul shredded upon the Devourer's teeth and forged into a fiend, as any who perished in battle to his blade, or any mortals that were deceived by his promise of an afterlife, all would in time, as he converted their faith into fuel for his eternal crusade. The air stung against his skin, as Ibishma began to walk, studying the labyrinthine levels of Irkalla's innards for a moment, before purpose plagued his consciousness, and one of the Warlord's many commanders assumed psionic control of his mind. That was not to say that the daemons were puppets though, that primordial desires did not beat within their breast, but instead that Ibishma, much like many that came before, was inspired to obey their overlords, an instinct as intrinsic as breathing to a babe, for they were a cog in the machine, and knew their lord would harness them well. On this particular day, Ibishma was assigned to an office of great import, though they knew it not, so fresh was their mind, for by serving as one of a multitude of guards about Nekeshtul, they unwittingly bore witness to the birth of a wondrous and terrible thing. Nekeshtul, of course, was the black foundry within Irkalla's bowels, the infernal place where atrocities were conceived, and weapons were wrought, the spot where sorcery and science entwined to usher doom upon worlds without count. It was there within the dark heart of Malice's fortress, that his chief artificer and enforcer had begun a great project, a monster whose might over magi-tech was unparalleled upon the prime material plane, and whose thirst for knowledge led them to ever more ingenuous inventions of woe. Marduk had been called many things across the millennia they had served the Great Devourer, slayer of sons, shaper of sins, and many more vilifications besides, but when Ibishma saw the way that they moulded metal with their bare hands, he couldn't help but marvel. A cambion by birth, which were half-breeds compared to the bulk of the legion, Marduk had been elevated not because of his strength with a sword but instead the inhuman aptitude they possessed for sorcery, and it was whispered that the floating fortresses themselves, and the soul-furnaces which powered them, were little more than afterthoughts for his level of genius. Ibishma watched with interest that day, when Marduk began to unlock the secrets of a vial of blood and then sculpt its anathema into an artefact, a sword whose very bite would be bolstered by not sorcery alone, but additionally the science behind the DNA which once stained fair Ubshu's marble floors as well. The daemon watched unwaveringly, as minutes lapsed into hours, and the dread device slowly took shape, watched as it was tempered by forces far exceeding Valucre's gravity, as it was doused in extra-planar energy that sparked and spat fumes which made even his monstrous eyes wince and falter. Marduk themselves traced intricate gestures within the air, as though they were conducting an orchestra that they alone could hear, whilst spells streamed from their fingertips and bled themselves, inch by inch, syllable by syllable, into the alloy of the blade, scorching the silver sheen from its surface and blemishing it evermore an unyielding black. This process lasted several weeks, as the Warlord committed considerable resources to the endeavour that the Emperor had entrusted him with, until at long last, when Marduk's toil had culminated, the weapon was presented before Malice, and he could taste its triumph upon his tongue. Ereshkigal, the Great Devourer thought, a fitting name for the Carmine Cutter whose very presence set his teeth on edge, such was its sheer power, a weapon for Rafael to unleash upon their foes, should history repeat itself, and base-born beasts seek to usurp thrones which they could but dream to dignify.
  2. Comfort to some, and cage to others, faith was a weapon to wield, as much as a cross one could bear. There was a time once, when Malice would have scorned the concepts that Rafael sought to pin upon his pantheon, a period when fancies such as the 'romance' of war seemed frivolous and foolish, given the gravity of its circumstances. That was before the Warlord had lived amongst the people of Valucre though, before their hopes and hatreds had bloomed about him like flowers, and revealed a far greater harvest to be exploited. There was power in belief, a strength sapped from souls which eagerly embraced death, in the name of love, or loyalty to one's cause, an energy moulded from the marrow of their motivations. When the Emperor extolled the benefits of being idolised then, rather than merely feared, the Great Devourer regarded him with a knowing smile, a shark-toothed signal that unveiled far too many teeth for the maw which outwardly bore them, as he nodded in agreement, and reflected inwardly on their endeavour. Emotions were still a weakness, yes, but they did so tenderise the meat before the sheeps were sent to be slaughtered. He would be their effigy to imitate, their Adonis to adore, for he was no snake within the garden, but something far more insidious, a sin that soaked into every stitch and cell, a word whispered within the hearts of man, as they fought to live for others, but to die for Him. Conjuring forth a container, Rafael would present the Warlord with another gift that day, and before ever the Emperor could explain, Malice espied his intent, knowing well the scent of the black blood and its owner, so frequently had their paths crossed, and blades clashed. It seemed fitting now, however, that he would no longer sully himself with those that were beneath him, and instead merely manufacture the instrument of their annihilation. “There is no beast I cannot brutalise”, the behemoth responded, thinking briefly of how the devil's DNA still soaked the stones of his fortress Ubshu, but such dalliances were in the past now, and others warranted more intention than the fiend was worth. “See his will done, Marduk”, Malice intoned, gesturing toward the jar with naught but a glance before his weaponsmith, psionically bound to him, like the rest of his legion, snared the object with sorcery and the jar vanished from sight, teleported into the bowels of Irkalla, where his second fortress could forge such an artefact. “Worry not”, the Warlord offered, as Rafael began to depart, forsaking the cruelty on the slopes for the civilization they had wrought in the lands beyond, “once my craftsman is through, the devil himself will not be able to deny his doom.” That was where their deal was struck, where monarch met monster and bargained for the afterlives of their people, for in the end what worth did mortals hold, to the undying princes who played them like pawns.
  3. It was said that beauty was only skin deep, yet beneath facades of fat and fealties, even a monster might marvel. Silence swallowed the companions, in the wake of the Warlord's words, a stillness that crept across the rocky outcrop and perhaps, even the enclave itself, as Rafael studied the beast he would break bread with. In stark contrast to the Elder's attentive gaze, however, Malice's eyes stared outward, past peak and bone, to spires which danced upon distant horizons, as his supernatural vision traversed leagues, where man's might mere slopes. That wasn't to say that the Great Devourer didn't share his comrade's curiosity though, for even as the Emperor's sight charted the contours of his physique, the juggernaut's own senses spilled across the vampyre's form, slipping like smoke through cloth and countenance, to study the splendour which dwelt below. That was the thing that few understood in this world, the Warlord reflected, as he considered Rafael and the persona he adopted, a ruler of measured poise, whose movements were as calculated as they were meaningful. Power was often far subtler than soldiers suspected, far more sinister than scholars could dream, for the Emperor wore their mask well, but Malice saw the hunger that blazed within their breast, the potency planted throughout every pore, coiled tight and concealed, as though a spring waiting to strike. To Genesaris then, Rafael was a mild-mannered bureaucrat, but the truth stood beside the behemoth as though a sun bound to earth, for the Elder burned like a supernova with untapped energy, and woe be to any who presumed otherwise. A knowing smile curled at the corner of the fiend's black lips next, when Rafael discerned his desire and spoke of stability, an irony the Emperor might never know, should their conversation never wander to the Warlord's origins, or the reason behind his epithet, which so many assumed to be his name. In reality, however, Malice was derived from a long forgotten language, where 'Mal' represented an ill-omen, though newer than the Anzillu, or 'abomination', which the oldest tongue on that world had once vilified the Great Devourer with, in days of yore. Rafael's request then, was in essence for the Warlord to maintain a low-profile whilst within the Imperium, lest his very presence unravel what the silver-tongued devil had wrought. It was not an unreasonable expectation, given their station, and yet the juggernaut felt the need to clarify his own position in response, as the Elder's words washed over him and spoke of subduing the dead that stalked these lands, and Malice turned to regard Mageside with his lidless and indomitable gaze. “I shall gird your borders from intruders, living or otherwise, but in return I want your religion to recognise me as a deity. “ The Warlord's voice was a heavy and thunderous thing, a baritone which broke like an avalanche upon the mountanside, though their message was mysteriously confined to their vicinity, as if even language dared not defy the inhuman's inexorable will. “We shall have an agreement, when my name is whispered as the God of War, and men worship me from one corner of your realm to the other.” Naturally, Malice knew that seeding such sentiment within a nation would be a slow process, but age had long since fled his flesh, and time was but another weapon in his arsenal, and so regardless of if it took a year, or a hundred, his eternal hunger would be sated eventually, he had but to acquiesce now, and reap the spoils of his deeds in the seasons to come. To that end, the monster extended his right hand toward the Emperor, a gauntlet that was graven with countless spells now unfurled, and offered Rafael the hand of friendship, a gesture to seal their pact, which he believed mortals said to signify respect.
  4. Though it may represent strength for some, family was ever a frailty born into the bone of man's resolve Rafael held no relations here, amidst the cursed crags and choking smoke, no subjects to subdue, nor siblings to save, where mountain met monster, and magic marked the earth with ancient indelible scars. The Carmine Emperor's journey this day might have seemed fruitless to some then, and sheer folly to others, as they strode alone into a veritable pit of sin, where dead and daemon alike stalked the sorcery-studded slopes. Unlike the Elder's enemies, however, Malice did not underestimate the vampyre, did not feign knowledge or familiarity, where once cousins and craven kings might have found certainty in the bond they believed they held. Instead of forging their union upon assumption or arrogance then, the Great Devourer regarded Rafael with a measure of respect, one so many others were bereft of, when they too had walked upon the surface of suns, or straddled dimensions, before arriving upon Valucre. Perhaps this was why, when Rafael's words found the Warlord in the seething darkness of the Enclave's shrine, the deep wells of sorrow that formed his eyes, more bottomless than any sea, gored through gristle and granite alike, to gaze upon the Emperor's position from the hungry womb of the world below. Once he had discerned the creature's location, and the very air began to thrum with the latent power that the Emperor could wield, Malice allowed himself a small smile, as he endured a force that could have crushed mortal bones to dust, before the smell of ozone burning would suddenly permeate Rafael's vicinity. This was no reciprocal assault, however, so much as it was a similar demonstration of strength, as gauntleted hands clawed reality asunder and birthed a bleeding wound next to the Elder, a tear in space which ushered the behemoth's bulk from the bowels of Genesaris, unto the wind-swept ridge beside them. “This cesspit shall suffice”, the Warlord responded, as he surveyed their surroundings thoughtfully, “for what need have I of thrones, when the land here is a beast I might break and ride?” Naturally, Malice could discern the difference that its energy represented, a phenomenon that required stern oppression, as opposed to the subtle manipulation and perversion of La'Ruta, and yet the juggernaut seemed un-phased by the challenge this presented, clothed as he was in conquered creatures, which were defiant once, and now comprised both his armour and his weaponised aura. “What would you ask in return for such a bounty?”, he inquired, for unlike Orisia, the Empire had no need of soldiers, nor strategy, when it came to war, judging by what the warrior had observed in years of late. The skulls mounted upon the Warlord's shoulders, often serving as mouth-pieces for the fiend stood silent now, their incessant chattering quelled by the indomitable will of their master, as he waited patiently for Rafael to offer his terms, after all this was not a surrender, nor an invasion this day, but instead a meeting, of equals.
  5. No tale is beyond transformation, no mountain moulded to survive conquest, for change comes for all things, in time. It was naught but a glint at first, a spark to stoke a flame of promise, and usher it into the void of night, and as its first fingers crept across the cold and rocky peaks, dawn brought not daylight from the east, but instead something far more sinister. Writhing upon the wind, and coiling about the coastline like some vast serpent, a mist suddenly beset Genesaris' shores that morning, a broiling miasma that scorched stone and made the snow-laden mountains weep at its passage, as though the very land cried out, and knew despair. This was no mere fog, however, for concealed within the smoky shrouds of this phenomenon jutted ghastly shapes, spires that spat toward the heavens, and towers that tore the air asunder, as though they were jagged teeth within the maw of some vast and terrible leviathan of yore. Penetrating Genesarian airspace, as though its arrival had been pre-ordained, this cloud curled around the continent's eastern corner unhindered, blanketing the waters east of Mageside in a bleak and impenetrable smog, before spilling over the mountain range to the south, and vanishing from sight. The entire event transpired within the space of several minutes, traversing leagues of farmland and villages as though propelled by some fel and malevolent force, until, unbeknownst to the neighbouring population, it came to rest within the nook of the Abyssal Enclave, a region infamous for magical manifestations in the past. Where once man and mage alike had feared to tread, however, there now stalked an inhuman host, a legion that lashed the earth with their footfalls, as twin fortresses, still shrouded by mist, disgorged thousands upon thousands of red-skinned monstrosities. Marching at the head of this force, with confidence that belied their bulk, when compared to the twelve foot tall terrors upon their flank, came an ancient creature, a figure armoured in obsidian plate, which bore trophies of his victories upon its broad shoulders. Into the mouth of the enclave's sub-levels they stalked, shooting a spirited will-o-wisp a withering look, as they dismissed their guidance with a gauntleted hand and instead strode hungrily through the ranks of undead which rose to greet the intruder to the shrine. Gnashing their teeth and moaning in complaint, the restless dead who had assailed so many interlopers in the past parted now, compelled by a will that transcended mortal minds, as they split like a sea and knelt as one, before the coming of the Great Devourer. This procession continued for several miles, winding its way through catacomb and crypt alike, until there in the heart of the mountain the Warlord found the shrine itself, an ornate altar hewn from stone, graven in the likeness of a bull. Surveying this spectacle with black and lidless eyes, the stranger studied the scrolls which lay strewn about the dais itself, as a thick and meaty tongue traced the taste of magic in the air across sun-scorched lips. Rather than rifling through these tomes, however, as any intrepid scholar or sorcerer was want to do, the figure extended their arms instead, speaking but a single word of power before ink and etching alike veritably leapt from the mediums that bound them. Floating through the air, as though they possessed some sentience of their own suddenly, this knowledge slipped through the stranger's armour and began snaking its way up their skin, coursing up either arm until it came to rest upon the face of the fiend. Turning slowly now, as the spells and secrets of generations long gone danced upon his flesh like archaic tattoos, the warrior stood upon the podium and stared down upon the innumerable creatures that comprised their legion, addressing the assembly of abominations, much like a priest might their congregation. “The shadow of the Carmine Empire falls upon these lands, a kingdom swollen by prosperity, whose citizens number in the millions. We shall establish a fresh foothold upon this plane here in these mountains, we shall sap their very souls from the soil of this paradise, to fuel the machine of War. Know ye now that our conquests shall come, not from the feeble borders of this realm, but the stars themselves, for before our time is done, the heavens shall bleed, and the very Multiverse shall tremble.” A cacophony of assent followed this speech, a chorus that shook the catacombs and caused the restless dead to cower, such was its tumult, but as the daemonic host celebrated, their leader's eyes fell not upon the commotion, but instead swept their vicinity for the arrival of another, a partner in the woe he would sow upon Valucre.
  6. In a world such as this, blood is but grease, and bone naught but the wheels, of progress. Orisia was many things to those that dwelt there, a haven, a home, and even a paradise, to those that turned adversity, into promise. Islands comprised of not merely sand or stone, but instead the dream of a dynasty, a beauty bequeathed by Bartolome, whose descendants danced beneath the moon and stars. Despite its splendour, however, there was one thing which Orisia was not, and that was large, encompassing less than two thousand miles from one edge to the next, a nation isolated and alone, compared to the monstrous might of neighbouring Genesaris. Perhaps that was why, when Malice had sown the seeds of his religion within their hearts, and Rafael forsook Gabriela to tend to his Empire, the Warlord followed the Elder Vampyre across the sea, consolidating his forces upon a new continent, and leaving Orisia to fend for itself anew. When it came time for the legion to depart though, there was no sentiment spared for the Black Queen, no uncomfortable silence nor fumbling of flesh, for the two had surpassed such trivialities of old, such was their bond. Gabriela would feel his departure, would know his loss, as La'Ruta itself undulated violently, the further that they grew apart, until with a final tumultuous crescendo, the shadow of his fortresses passed beyond Orisia, and she felt him no more. Ever the pragmatist, Malice harnessed every ebb and swell of the island's native magic as he went, channelling vast reservoirs into the cores of his floating citadels, gathering reserves so that, once they had escaped Orisian waters, the creatures would retain it indefinitely, like batteries fuelled not by charge alone, but instead an eternal power source, which would endure long after the sun grew cold. In time, La'Ruta would recover, in time another would balance the dark with Gabriela's light, but until then none could know the impact Malice's absence would hold for the quiet island chain, as days turned to years, and a new chapter unfolded for Orisia.
  7. Nice post,  my friend.  I don't think I've ever seen Malice take that stand before,  I'm impressed.  

    1. -Malice-


      Thank you. Even after twenty years i’m still finding new ways to innovate him, new avenues to explore. That’s why the character still excites me, even now. 

    2. Kalicity


      You and me both. 

  8. -Delete- Consider these actions null and void.
  9. Hi there Artificer, thank you for your question. As far as I know the only map of Ceyana can be found here: There is also a sub-board for Ceyana which has several quests that have been completed/undertaken, which can be found here: https://www.valucre.com/forum/210-ceyana/ Unfortunately i'm not sure if there is a general summary of the lore that has occurred there, though Orisia is undergoing a lore revamp/update lately, so perhaps @Pasion Pasiva could expand upon this for us :). I hope that helps.
  10. Thank you for the opportunity to write with you all, I have thoroughly enjoyed it. As I am moving house in the next couple of weeks, I decided to withdraw the wraith from the scene, so have now posted to that effect. Good luck with the rest of the Roleplay, and i'll see some of you in Orisia sometime ;)
  11. Writhing like a newborn courting rolls, reality seldom sits static for long As laughter resounded throughout the complex, and the birthing party scuttled for safety, the wraith regarded the entity quizzically, as though a rhinoceros had suddenly splashed into the sea and encountered the roving ruthlessness of a shark. Different as they were, however, this nascent nuisance appeared to employ the registry as a conduit, a portal through which to paw and probe the world of man, much like Malice had once, in those years when first his armoured heel had stalked Valucre's shores. When a smile slithered across the spectre's features, the puppet-master might have mistaken it for mirth initially, an effect that echoed in the aftermath of Mania made manifest within their vicinity. It wasn't until Agony and Lunara eluded the first of the creature's assaults, however, that the lesson would begin to lash the entity, a nugget of knowledge which doctor and devil alike had discovered with time, they weren't in Kansas anymore. Ominous and ancient though the entity may have been upon the planes, here within Valucre it was but another ferocious fish, another gruesome guppy within an ever expanding pond of potential, where monsters walked the earth, and battle between such beasts became commonplace, familiar even, to the denizens that dwelt there. Rather than interfering in the scuffle which ensued then, as its master was so often want to do, when it served his schemes, the wraith receded suddenly through layers of concrete and carbon, seeping back into the soil of Terrenus, whilst its mind mulled over the possible outcomes of the registry's endeavour. Perhaps they shall annihilate one another, the spectre mused, as its sentience began to fade, or maybe Mania shall mar this land anew, it wondered, as Malice switched the spectre into a stance built for surveillance and stealth, instead of interaction. Most importantly of all though, do Marigolds dream of electric shee.. [Exit Malice's wraith]
  12. Posted in Maze! (Hopefully that was the correct thread lol). I'm not sure what has happened to the turn order, now people have split/begun to leave though, so feel free to prompt whoever is next @Dolor Aeternum
  13. Discovery dwells not in the minds of man, but instead the dreams of monsters Marigold, inventor, entrepreneur and doubtless innovator of their current surroundings, a human whose heart lay dead within Orisia, as his hands wrought wonder from science, and stitched sanity together like one might a dress. To the outward observer, the good doctor was perhaps the odd one out in this endeavour, an innocent professional caught amongst a storm of schemes, as the Triumvirate ferried a foreign Queen to his doorstep. Beneath the bedside manner, however, and cloaked behind cordial comments, a darker truth unfolded before the wraith's lidless eyes, as its master Malice fed upon Lily's soul in Orisia, and gleaned information from her pliant flesh to pierce their facade. The nights were long when he was absent, Lily had complained, a servant to the crown who courted Gabriela's approval and tended to her needs. He stinks of smoke and sulphur, Lily had reflected, when Marigold returned from his experiments to taste the warmth of their bed, or more frequently, mere food to sustain him, whilst his mind was aflame with another idea, another plan to coax the coin they sought. I hardly recognise him anymore, Lily had lamented, as bit by bit, inch by inch, she watched the man she had loved slip away, as obsession overwhelmed him and she had found reason to keep her distance, accepting posts which required travel, whilst the midwives raised their neglected child. Perhaps that was why, when two intrepid interlopers unearthed Marigold's secret, the spectre harboured neither surprise nor sorrow, as it gazed through stone and steel toward the basement, where a beast was born not by coincidence, but instead the terrible tinkering of the monster that wore Marigold's face. Forsaking the folds of Gabriela's womb, having spent its seed and fulfilled whatever nefarious purpose the Warlord had intended for the child, the wraith slipped, smooth as silk, through the ground itself, traversing wall and ward alike with ethereal ease, as laughter engulfed the intruders, and spat murder upon their nascent minds. Descending like some sinister and suffocating shroud, the wraith entered the room as the Registry assailed the cloaked figures, witnessing the way it mauled their molecules, clawed the cloth from their corpses even, and then toyed with them as they lay there twitching, meat that writhed with muscle memory, long after their consciousness had crumbled. The sight was exquisite, as their screams echoed across the ether between worlds, trailing psychic shadows across the immaterium beneath the machine's onslaught, leaving energy coursing through the air, as they experienced annihilation at the hands of this horror hewn from man. Penetrating the sinews and circuits which comprised its form, however, Malice's messenger did indeed discern the true nature of the Registry, as the slender figure that controlled it resolved into view, a creature whose strength was belied by the colloquial tone of its conversation. Where the machine had found the intruders' minds meek and malleable though, it would instead discover a veritable fortress of thought, when it reached out to commune with the spectre, as the freshly forged fiend encountered ageless dread. 'You have not crossed paths with one such as I before', the wraith replied, its frame dancing like smoke in a breeze, if the Registry could perceive it through some otherwordly witch-sight. 'The ones above are far less feeble than those husks you just hollowed though, should you seek some...entertainment'. It was a mischievous statement, at least upon the surface, as the world wobbled and the dimensions of the complex began to distort, a missive which should have suggested humour, had its wielder not been far removed from mortal sentiment. No in truth the wraith sought to study this strange entity, sought to probe the depths of its potential through the suffering of others, and so made no move to impede its progress initially, as it girded itself against the Registry's psionics, as though it were a freshman fumbling at a bra. Let it lash them with its limbs, and lay waste to any who sought to sit idle, whilst Gabriela birthed her blighted babe.
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