The colosseum of Denkou was a monument to merciless ambition, its sun-bleached stones perpetually humming with the residue of lightning magic. High above, on a throne carved from a single, massive piece of obsidian, sat Tyrant King Myos. He was less a man and more a silhouette wreathed in ozone, his presence a constant, low-grade storm that made the hairs on every spectator’s arms stand on end. His eyes, barely visible beneath a jagged crown of thunder-forged iron, were like storm clouds gathering to unleash devastation.
The Royal Guard tournament was his grandest spectacle, a brutal crucible designed to find warriors whose strength was matched only by their loyalty—a loyalty proven by their willingness to sacrifice anything, and anyone. Today, in the semifinals, the air was thick with it. Families sat divided in the stands, emblems of the four great houses—the steadfast bear of Urso, the elegant Mantis of Flonne, the industrious ant of Gamallow, and the fierce serpent of Ri'ore—adorning banners that seemed to jeer at one another across the arena.
The first bout was announced, Onohall's voice magically amplified to echo through the stands. “Evant of House Urso versus Yuta of House Gamallow!”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. An Urso heir against a Gamallow prodigy. It was a classic clash of power against finesse, steel against spell.
Evant Urso strode onto the sand, his every step precise and confident. He was tall and lean, built with the coiled strength of a predator. His eyes were fixed on the obsidian throne for a moment before sweeping across the arena. His sword, a masterpiece of storm-forged steel with a hilt wrapped in thunder-lizard hide, remained sheathed at his hip. He didn't wield lightning as a ranged weapon; he channeled it, making his body and his blade an extension of the storm.
From the opposite gate emerged Yuta Gamallow. She was his family, a truth that sat like a stone in Evant’s gut. While Evant was the storm’s edge, Yuta was its heart. Slender and seemingly delicate, she moved with a fluid grace that belied the catastrophic power at her command. Her eyes were the color of a charged violet sky, and her fingertips already sparked with latent energy. She was a transmuter of genius talent, capable of not just calling lightning, but shaping it into solid, intricate forms.
They met in the center of the arena, the oppressive silence broken only by the crackle of the King’s ambient power.
“Evant,” Yuta said, her voice soft but clear. “The King watches. Don’t hold back for my sake.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Evant replied, his voice a low rumble. “We know why we fight....”
The ceremonial bell chimed, its sound swallowed by an immediate, deafening crack of thunder. Yuta had struck first. The air before her tore open, as lightning coiled into thorns that wove spears of coiled lightning, shot toward Evant.
Evant didn't flinch. He drew his sword in a motion too fast to follow. Instead of parrying, he angled the flat of the blade. A faint blue aura flared around the steel as he grounded the thorns' charge, sending a spiderweb of electricity harmlessly into the sand at his feet.
Yuta’s lips quirked into a smirk. The opening move was a test. Now, the lesson began. She danced back, her hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. The sand around Evant erupted as three whips of crackling violet energy lashed out, seeking to entangle him.
Evant became a blur of motion. He didn't retreat; he advanced. His footwork was flawless, a dance of dodges and deflections. He spun, his blade a silver arc, severing one whip. He ducked under another, the static discharge singing the tips of his hair. The third he met head-on, channeling his own lightning into his sword. Blue energy met violet in a shower of brilliant sparks, and the whip dissolved.
He was closing the distance. Yuta, for all her power, knew the danger zone for a swordsman of his caliber. She stamped her foot, and a wall of shimmering, translucent lightning erupted between them. Through it, Evant could see her gathering herself for a more powerful incantation.
He wouldn't give her the time of day. "You always favored defense when pressed, Yuta!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the hum of her barrier. He drove the tip of his sword into the sand, gripping the hilt with both hands. He closed his eyes, drawing on the Urso bloodline's deep connection to the storm. The blue aura around him intensified, coiling up his arms, his entire body becoming a conduit. He wasn't shaping lightning; he was lightning.
With a roar, he unleashed it, not as a projectile, but as a disruptive pulse. The frequency of his raw power slammed into Yuta’s meticulously constructed wall. For a split second, the violet energy of her barrier wavered, its structure destabilized.
That was all he needed. He lunged, shattering the weakened wall like glass. He was through.
Yuta’s eyes widened in shock. He was on her in an instant. She tried to summon a defensive spike of energy, but he was too close. He knew her tells—the slight flicker of her left eye, the way she bit her lip before a desperate cast. He batted her hands aside with his gauntleted forearm and spun, the pommel of his sword striking the back of her knee.
She cried out and stumbled, falling to one knee. In the same fluid motion, Evant’s blade was at her throat. The cold, storm-forged steel rested against her skin. The arena fell silent. The air crackled with anticipation. All eyes were on them, and on the King.
Yuta looked up at him, defiance burning in her violet eyes. "So...here we are," she whispered, a plea and a command. "For the honor of the Houses. For the true King..."
Evant looked into her eyes, and he didn't see a Gamallow prodigy or an opponent in the ring. He saw the girl who had dared him to steal honey-cakes from the royal kitchens, the cousin who had helped him bind his wounds after a disastrous training session. He saw family.
His grip on the sword trembled. He looked up at the obsidian throne, at the impassive, demanding silhouette of King Myos. The King demanded strength. He demanded a sacrifice. But this was a sacrifice Evant would not make.
With a sharp, final exhalation, he pulled his sword back and sheathed it with a decisive click. He offered his hand to Yuta.
A collective gasp swept through the colosseum. Disbelief. Confusion. Then, a low, menacing growl emanated from the throne, a sound that vibrated in the very bones of everyone present.
"VICTOR," the King’s voice boomed, dripping with cold fury. "COMPLETE YOUR DUTY. KILL HER."
Yuta stared at Evant's outstretched hand, then at the King, her face pale.
Evant ignored the command. He helped his cousin to her feet. "The bout is over," he declared, his voice ringing with a conviction that defied the King himself. "I have won."
"YOU HAVE WON NOTHING UNTIL YOUR OPPONENT IS ELIMINATED," Myos roared, the sky above the open colosseum beginning to darken ominously. "THIS IS NOT A GAME, BOY. THIS IS A TEST OF WILL. PROVE YOURS. STRIKE HER DOWN!"
Evant turned to face the throne directly, positioning himself slightly in front of Yuta. His hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I will not be the butcher of my blood," he yelled back, his voice raw with emotion. He was crying, tears of rage and sorrow carving paths through the grime on his face. "My strength is for the protection of the Kingdom, not the slaughter of its children for your amusement! The Urso family serves Denkou, but we do not serve a tyrant's bloodlust!"
The King rose slowly from his throne, the ambient energy in the arena skyrocketing. The air grew thick and heavy, tasting of metal and rain.
"You speak of family?" The King's voice was a low, terrifying whisper that carried to every corner of the stadium. "The Royal Guard is my family. And it has no room for the weak. No room for sentiment. No room for disrespect."
Evant’s fear was a cold serpent in his gut, but his resolve was a fire that burned hotter. "Then I am not fit for your Guard!" he roared, his voice cracking. "If you demand a sacrifice for your throne, then take it from me! I would sooner face you, Tyrant, than raise my sword against my family again!"
A deathly silence hung for a heartbeat. Then, King Myos laughed. It was not a sound of mirth, but of breaking glaciers and splitting mountains.
"I OBLIGE!"
He stepped off the edge of his platform high above. He did not fall. He descended in a single, cataclysmic crash of lightning. A bolt of pure, blinding white energy, thick as an ancient oak, slammed into the center of the arena not twenty feet from Evant. The sand was blasted away, revealing a crater of fused, glowing glass.
From the heart of that blinding light, the King emerged. The simple robes he wore on the throne were gone, replaced by articulated plates of black iron threaded garments. Kingsthread that seemed forged from solidified shadow and crackling lightning. His crown was no longer just iron, but a halo of pure, jagged, untamed energy.
His eyes glowed with an inner, electric-blue fire, and arcs of static electricity danced over his skin. The very air seemed to beckon from his presence.
He cracked his neck, the sound like splintering rock. "You wanted a fight to prove your conviction, little bear," King Myos hissed, a ball of crackling lightning forming in his palm. "You've been coddled far too long...." He flexed his fingers, and a greatsword composed of raw, chained lightning materialized in his grip.
Evant drew his sword, the familiar weight a small comfort against the suffocating tide of the King's presence. He was outmatched; he knew it. This was not a man; it was a god of storms given flesh. But as he looked at Yuta being hurried away by medics, at the crestfallen face of his father in the stands, he knew he had made the only choice he could.
He settled into his dueling stance, the blue lightning of his house coiling around his blade. It looked like a flickering candle next to the King’s raging inferno.
King Myos took a single, thunderous step forward. "Let the final lesson begin."
And with a roar that was both a man’s and a thunderclap’s, Evant Urso, heir and swordsman, charged to meet the storm head-on.
A Dynasty Falls[Pt1]
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
A Dynasty Falls[Pt1]
Last edited by Dalazar Denkou on Thu Jul 24, 2025 12:48 pm, edited 2 times in total.
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
*Meanwhile*
The air in the aqueducts was a thick, stagnant soup of mildew and forgotten centuries. Water wept from the stone, each drip a mournful tick of a clock counting down to ruin. A cloaked figure emerged within the spittal of the musty Aqueducts, a phantom born of shadow and resolve. Wrapped in a garb that seemed to drink the bleak darkness of the dimly lit tunnels was Dalazar.
It had taken him longer than he anticipated to return to the kingdom after his training with the Conservatory. Still, it was a task that was of the utmost importance for him to complete before returning home. His training was not merely for power, but for control. For what awaited him was a clash of destiny that would define the course of the entire kingdom's future, but finally, confronting the burning ghost of its past.
He was accompanied by a small glimmer of light in the shape of a sphere that assiduously distracted his vision, bobbing like a firefly with a mind of its own. These passageways had long since been abandoned, a carefully guarded secret that would have seemed to prove useful not only once, but twice now.
Ever since he had stepped back onto the Kingdom soil, he had felt it, not with his ears or eyes, but with the very core of his being. The Denkou were a telepathic people, their collective consciousness a network they called the Pathways. Now, that network was screaming. He felt the presence of Azar's madness festering like a smog of sizzling fury, straining the peace of her once docile kingdom.
The roars of the people filled the Pathways, not with cheers, but with symphonies of chaos and rage. It was a bloodlust that brought back the painful memory of when Azar's hatred once manifested in him, and the cursed ceremonial flames—meant to anoint a king—had instead become a conflagration, decimating everything around him. The memory was branded on his soul.
Yet he returned not as a harbinger of hatred, not mirroring the tainted essence of his now crumbling Kingdom. No, as he splunkered through the underground passageways through grime and muck, what churned in his heart was not the quarry for vengeance, despite the many atrocities his Brother, the Tyrant King Myos, had committed; it was a declaration of correction, a vow to save his family that motivated his every stride.
His path was clear; he needed to reach the Oasis, also known as Pana Chiyo or the Emerald Blood, hidden beneath the Royal Palace. The tomb of Ain's First Emerald King was there, a sanctuary of immense power and the kingdom's final hope. He needed to enter the tomb, and from there, he would infiltrate the palace itself, emerging on the surface of the kingdom right next to the arena where the tournament, now in its final day, was being held. He would waste no more time.
A scuff of a boot against stone, somewhere ahead in the Cimmerian dark. It was not the echo of his footfalls. The sphere pulsed, its light momentarily dimming as Dalazar’s hand went to the hilt of the blade sheathed at his back. He braced himself for battle, every muscle coiled.
But then a voice, strained and trembling, cut through the gloom. "Lord Dalazar, by the Fulgora's grace, please...tell me it is you...My King?"
From the shadows, a slender figure emerged, her face pale and streaked with dirt, yet her noble bearing was unmistakable. Dalazar could scarcely believe his eyes. "Emerion," he breathed, his posture relaxing slightly. "What are you doing in a place like this?"
Emerion, sister of his loyal knight Evant, took a hesitant step forward, relief washing over her features. "I...was exiled by Myos," she said, her voice cracking. "It is only because of my brother that I survived. He bid me to wait here for you, to escort you to the tomb of the first king."
"Exiled?" His brow furrowed, a dark line of concern. The malice of Myos knew no bounds, but to cast out one of their own so callously... "Tell me everything, Emerion."
Her story tumbled out, a torrent of grief and horror. She told him about the tournament Myos had orchestrated, a barbaric spectacle designed to shatter the very soul of the kingdom. It wasn't just a contest; it was a cull.
He had pitted nobles against the civilians they were supposed to protect, and worse, he had put family against family, forcing them into duels to the death. As she described the glee on Myos's face while watching loved ones fall to his cruelty, Dalazar held up a hand. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and sphere flared with a sudden, angry brightness.
"Enough," he said, his voice a low growl of controlled fury. "Then it is far worse than I thought." He looked at her, his eyes holding the weight of a world's sorrow. "Come, let us stall no longer. Place your trust in me, Emerion. I promise, I will bring this horror to an end."
He stood taller, the shadows seeming to recede from his form. A faint, emerald aura began to crackle around him, ozone filling the stale air. His voice resonated with an ancient power, a promise forged in the heart of a star.
"My word, as the Fourth Emerald King."
It was then that Emerion saw it. This was what her brother meant, the unshakeable faith he held in Dalazar. He was not just a prince returning; he was a king answering his calling. He was a light in this suffocating darkness, and the power he possessed crackled around him not as a threat, but as a shield. It was now she knew. She could place her absolute faith in him.
Her shoulders straightened, the despair in her eyes replaced by a spark of fierce hope. "Yes," she said, her voice firm and clear. "Let us go, my lord."
The air in the aqueducts was a thick, stagnant soup of mildew and forgotten centuries. Water wept from the stone, each drip a mournful tick of a clock counting down to ruin. A cloaked figure emerged within the spittal of the musty Aqueducts, a phantom born of shadow and resolve. Wrapped in a garb that seemed to drink the bleak darkness of the dimly lit tunnels was Dalazar.
It had taken him longer than he anticipated to return to the kingdom after his training with the Conservatory. Still, it was a task that was of the utmost importance for him to complete before returning home. His training was not merely for power, but for control. For what awaited him was a clash of destiny that would define the course of the entire kingdom's future, but finally, confronting the burning ghost of its past.
He was accompanied by a small glimmer of light in the shape of a sphere that assiduously distracted his vision, bobbing like a firefly with a mind of its own. These passageways had long since been abandoned, a carefully guarded secret that would have seemed to prove useful not only once, but twice now.
Ever since he had stepped back onto the Kingdom soil, he had felt it, not with his ears or eyes, but with the very core of his being. The Denkou were a telepathic people, their collective consciousness a network they called the Pathways. Now, that network was screaming. He felt the presence of Azar's madness festering like a smog of sizzling fury, straining the peace of her once docile kingdom.
The roars of the people filled the Pathways, not with cheers, but with symphonies of chaos and rage. It was a bloodlust that brought back the painful memory of when Azar's hatred once manifested in him, and the cursed ceremonial flames—meant to anoint a king—had instead become a conflagration, decimating everything around him. The memory was branded on his soul.
Yet he returned not as a harbinger of hatred, not mirroring the tainted essence of his now crumbling Kingdom. No, as he splunkered through the underground passageways through grime and muck, what churned in his heart was not the quarry for vengeance, despite the many atrocities his Brother, the Tyrant King Myos, had committed; it was a declaration of correction, a vow to save his family that motivated his every stride.
His path was clear; he needed to reach the Oasis, also known as Pana Chiyo or the Emerald Blood, hidden beneath the Royal Palace. The tomb of Ain's First Emerald King was there, a sanctuary of immense power and the kingdom's final hope. He needed to enter the tomb, and from there, he would infiltrate the palace itself, emerging on the surface of the kingdom right next to the arena where the tournament, now in its final day, was being held. He would waste no more time.
A scuff of a boot against stone, somewhere ahead in the Cimmerian dark. It was not the echo of his footfalls. The sphere pulsed, its light momentarily dimming as Dalazar’s hand went to the hilt of the blade sheathed at his back. He braced himself for battle, every muscle coiled.
But then a voice, strained and trembling, cut through the gloom. "Lord Dalazar, by the Fulgora's grace, please...tell me it is you...My King?"
From the shadows, a slender figure emerged, her face pale and streaked with dirt, yet her noble bearing was unmistakable. Dalazar could scarcely believe his eyes. "Emerion," he breathed, his posture relaxing slightly. "What are you doing in a place like this?"
Emerion, sister of his loyal knight Evant, took a hesitant step forward, relief washing over her features. "I...was exiled by Myos," she said, her voice cracking. "It is only because of my brother that I survived. He bid me to wait here for you, to escort you to the tomb of the first king."
"Exiled?" His brow furrowed, a dark line of concern. The malice of Myos knew no bounds, but to cast out one of their own so callously... "Tell me everything, Emerion."
Her story tumbled out, a torrent of grief and horror. She told him about the tournament Myos had orchestrated, a barbaric spectacle designed to shatter the very soul of the kingdom. It wasn't just a contest; it was a cull.
He had pitted nobles against the civilians they were supposed to protect, and worse, he had put family against family, forcing them into duels to the death. As she described the glee on Myos's face while watching loved ones fall to his cruelty, Dalazar held up a hand. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and sphere flared with a sudden, angry brightness.
"Enough," he said, his voice a low growl of controlled fury. "Then it is far worse than I thought." He looked at her, his eyes holding the weight of a world's sorrow. "Come, let us stall no longer. Place your trust in me, Emerion. I promise, I will bring this horror to an end."
He stood taller, the shadows seeming to recede from his form. A faint, emerald aura began to crackle around him, ozone filling the stale air. His voice resonated with an ancient power, a promise forged in the heart of a star.
"My word, as the Fourth Emerald King."
It was then that Emerion saw it. This was what her brother meant, the unshakeable faith he held in Dalazar. He was not just a prince returning; he was a king answering his calling. He was a light in this suffocating darkness, and the power he possessed crackled around him not as a threat, but as a shield. It was now she knew. She could place her absolute faith in him.
Her shoulders straightened, the despair in her eyes replaced by a spark of fierce hope. "Yes," she said, her voice firm and clear. "Let us go, my lord."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
The air itself was a tomb, heavy and suffocating. As Evant charged forward, his arc-charged blade humming with contained power, he felt the world shift on an axis he had never known existed. Before he could execute the sweeping slash he had envisioned a thousand times in training, the air around Myos seemed to grow infinitely denser. It was a hineosu aura, pure unfiltered bloodlust, an epoch of afesting fury boiling underneath the guise of a man. It was monstrous, seemingly stretching far beyond eternity, and for the first time in Evant's life, he felt the tonnage of genuine fear...and gave way to pause.
"!!!"
He came to a screaming halt upon the glass-encrusted earth, his boots skidding on a ground transformed by the mere entrance of the King. The momentum of his charge died in an instant, stolen by the oppressive weight of Myos's presence. Myos's eyes, chips of arctic ice, narrowed as an arrogant smirk slowly crept across his face.
"What's wrong... little bear?"
He stabbed his lightning-stained greatsword into the earth. The most minute of exertion, a lazy flick of the wrist, caused the world to split and crackle with bluish hues. Fissures spiderwebbed from the blade, glowing with trapped ozone.
"Have you never faced a true predator before? I would imagine not, the way you've coddled up to that weakling little brother of mine."
A thick bead of sweat trickled down the right side of Evant's face, carving a path through the grime of battle. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. But as Myos mentioned, Dalazar, something shifted within him. The fear remained, a cold stone in his gut, but a spark of indignant fire ignited beside it. Evant's eyes narrowed.
"My lord is ten times the king you'll ever be..."
Myos chuckled, a low and grating sound. "And you are willing to die on that hill?"
"Kneel..."
The word was a command, a hiss of absolute authority. It happened so fast, faster than his mind could register what had honestly occurred. Before he knew it, Myos was upon him. There was no blur of movement, no sound of approach—one moment he was ten paces away, the next his presence filled Evant’s entire world.
A brutal knee rammed into his gut with enough force to shatter his rib cage almost instantly. It was enough force to send him high into the air, yet Evant did not move; he could not move. The blow had left him nearly drifting through a state of consciousness for but a single moment, his lungs burning, a spray of blood erupting from his lips.
He was suspended in agony, the world a silent, fading tapestry. In that single moment, he heard Dalazar's voice ring true in his mind, a memory from the day his life found its purpose.
He would not kneel. He would not let his knee hit the ground. Before that fleeting moment of losing consciousness could claim him, he proudly caught himself. His foot stomped down with enough force to splinter the earth twice as large as the king's sword had done but moments ago. The shockwave threw up shards of vitrified dirt. He stood, bent and broken, but upright.
"You...know nothing about him," Evant rasped, blood dribbling from his chin. "What he's endured."
His body began to change. His muscles bulged and became more defined, tearing at his tunic. A thick concentration of lightning, raw and untamed, began to ebb from him, singing away the threads of his clothes until his torso was bare, etched with the crackling energy of his vow. Myos did not fret; instead, his smirk grew into a menacing grin.
"You would follow a man who murdered his brother, slayed the very people sent to save him?" Myos said, his voice laced with venomous glee. "What separates his action from my own?"
"...Nazuma gave his life to save his twin. Dalzar's incident was not his fault....I stood by his side as he tirelessly for years answered the plea of the people," Evant replied, his voice gaining strength with every word, his body straightening. "How the others bullied and pestered him for his lack of magic. How they lauded you and the other Ri'ore over him, yet and still."
"He smiled," Evant continued, the lightning arcing from his skin growing brighter, more violent. " He bore his teeth in grit and continued to do whatever he could to make up for his lack of control that day... but who he is now... what he has become...despite the power you STOLE from him..."
Evant took a step forward, the ground groaning under his weight. His eyes burned with the light of his soul. A fearsome gilden glare that marked him as an Ascendant Mage.
"Is something you, no matter what childish fits of cruelty you toss at us, can ever attain..."
He raised his head, meeting the King's predatory gaze without a hint of the fear that had paralyzed him moments before.
"He is a sovereign worth serving," Evant declared, his voice a thunderclap that rolled across the blighted land. "The only one I'll ever bend the knee to!"
His power exploded around him into an incredible aura of crackling magic, a grizzly bear of pure lightning roaring into existence behind him. The air, once heavy with Myos's aura, was now a storm of Evant's making, a tempest of loyalty made manifest.
"!!!"
He came to a screaming halt upon the glass-encrusted earth, his boots skidding on a ground transformed by the mere entrance of the King. The momentum of his charge died in an instant, stolen by the oppressive weight of Myos's presence. Myos's eyes, chips of arctic ice, narrowed as an arrogant smirk slowly crept across his face.
"What's wrong... little bear?"
He stabbed his lightning-stained greatsword into the earth. The most minute of exertion, a lazy flick of the wrist, caused the world to split and crackle with bluish hues. Fissures spiderwebbed from the blade, glowing with trapped ozone.
"Have you never faced a true predator before? I would imagine not, the way you've coddled up to that weakling little brother of mine."
A thick bead of sweat trickled down the right side of Evant's face, carving a path through the grime of battle. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. But as Myos mentioned, Dalazar, something shifted within him. The fear remained, a cold stone in his gut, but a spark of indignant fire ignited beside it. Evant's eyes narrowed.
"My lord is ten times the king you'll ever be..."
Myos chuckled, a low and grating sound. "And you are willing to die on that hill?"
"Kneel..."
The word was a command, a hiss of absolute authority. It happened so fast, faster than his mind could register what had honestly occurred. Before he knew it, Myos was upon him. There was no blur of movement, no sound of approach—one moment he was ten paces away, the next his presence filled Evant’s entire world.
A brutal knee rammed into his gut with enough force to shatter his rib cage almost instantly. It was enough force to send him high into the air, yet Evant did not move; he could not move. The blow had left him nearly drifting through a state of consciousness for but a single moment, his lungs burning, a spray of blood erupting from his lips.
He was suspended in agony, the world a silent, fading tapestry. In that single moment, he heard Dalazar's voice ring true in his mind, a memory from the day his life found its purpose.
The question echoed, not in his ears, but in the marrow of his bones. Evant’s mind was fleeting, fading, but the memory was an anchor."You would help me shoulder this?"
It was then that the Urso's true magic, Oath Magic, began to burn brightly from him. The Grizzly Mages of the Denkou possessed the ability to tether themselves to a Ri'ore, a royal bloodline. It is a conjoined magic; so long as that oath holds, they may gain access to an incredible boon to their powers. Feeling the weight of his conviction, his loyalty to King Dalazar—his light, his love—Evant's very soul flared.” I, Evant Urso, heir to the Urso Name, Scion of the grizzled mages, do solemnly accept this vow. In-kind, I vow never to stray from the true crown. To give my life for the Kingsblood and all under the light of his rule. On this, I wager my very soul and the pride of the Urso.”
He would not kneel. He would not let his knee hit the ground. Before that fleeting moment of losing consciousness could claim him, he proudly caught himself. His foot stomped down with enough force to splinter the earth twice as large as the king's sword had done but moments ago. The shockwave threw up shards of vitrified dirt. He stood, bent and broken, but upright.
"You...know nothing about him," Evant rasped, blood dribbling from his chin. "What he's endured."
His body began to change. His muscles bulged and became more defined, tearing at his tunic. A thick concentration of lightning, raw and untamed, began to ebb from him, singing away the threads of his clothes until his torso was bare, etched with the crackling energy of his vow. Myos did not fret; instead, his smirk grew into a menacing grin.
"You would follow a man who murdered his brother, slayed the very people sent to save him?" Myos said, his voice laced with venomous glee. "What separates his action from my own?"
"...Nazuma gave his life to save his twin. Dalzar's incident was not his fault....I stood by his side as he tirelessly for years answered the plea of the people," Evant replied, his voice gaining strength with every word, his body straightening. "How the others bullied and pestered him for his lack of magic. How they lauded you and the other Ri'ore over him, yet and still."
"He smiled," Evant continued, the lightning arcing from his skin growing brighter, more violent. " He bore his teeth in grit and continued to do whatever he could to make up for his lack of control that day... but who he is now... what he has become...despite the power you STOLE from him..."
Evant took a step forward, the ground groaning under his weight. His eyes burned with the light of his soul. A fearsome gilden glare that marked him as an Ascendant Mage.
"Is something you, no matter what childish fits of cruelty you toss at us, can ever attain..."
He raised his head, meeting the King's predatory gaze without a hint of the fear that had paralyzed him moments before.
"He is a sovereign worth serving," Evant declared, his voice a thunderclap that rolled across the blighted land. "The only one I'll ever bend the knee to!"
His power exploded around him into an incredible aura of crackling magic, a grizzly bear of pure lightning roaring into existence behind him. The air, once heavy with Myos's aura, was now a storm of Evant's making, a tempest of loyalty made manifest.
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
The slow, steady drip of unseen water was the only sound for a long while, a maddeningly rhythmic counterpoint to the sloshing of their boots through the muck. The aqueducts stank of rot and refuse, a cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. It was a place of forgotten things, a fitting path for a prince trying to reclaim a stolen kingdom.
Emerion watched Dalazar from the corner of her eye. His broad shoulders were tense, his jaw set so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. His gaze, usually so full of defiant fire, was distant, lost in a darkness that had nothing to do with their subterranean path.
"You're worried about him... aren't you?" she asked, her voice soft but clear in the echoing channel.
Dalazar started, pulled from his reverie. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips, the sound jarringly loud. "Heh... is it that obvious? Here I was thinking I’ve got my poker face down pat."
They trudged on for another dozen paces before he spoke again, his voice dropping, losing its forced levity. "When... when I left the Kingdom, escaped Myos's grip, I never once stopped thinking of home. Of the horror he would put everyone through... least of all Evant." His hand, wrapped around the hilt of his sword, clenched until the knuckles were white. "I knew Myos would toy with him. He was always jealous of our bond... but after what happened in the catacombs...was after Lyra's death..."
"Lyra?" Emerion’s brow furrowed. The name was familiar, a story told in hushed tones in barracks and taverns. "The former captain of the Urso Vanguard..."
Dalazar’s voice became hitched, a raw edge of pain cutting through. "We... we heard she died in a terrible accident, but why would the Kin—Myos begrudge you for that?"
He stopped walking. The dirty water swirled around his ankles. He turned to face her, his eyes glistening in the faint light filtering from a grate far above. "Because...." He swallowed hard, the word catching in his throat. "I killed her."
Emerion stopped still, the filth around her feet forgotten. The dripping water seemed to fade into a roaring silence in her ears. Shock, cold, and sharp, pierced through her. This man, this noble, tormented prince she had sworn to follow... a killer? "I don't... understand."
Dalazar looked away, his gaze fixed on the grimy, weeping stone wall. "As you know... the Emerald King is not allowed to sire many children. He is allowed only one child during the solstice, where the storm power is at its peak and the highest chance of the Emerald gene being passed is present. A solstice that occurs only once every thousand years."
"Yes... I am aware," she whispered, the old law sounding alien and cruel in this dark place.
"Myos, the eldest, was born on such a solstice, and though his power is great, he did not inherit the gene." A bitter note entered his tone. "However... years later, the unexpected happened, another birth..." He took a shaky breath. "Twins. Nalumere and I, Dalazar. Nalumere was born with an incredible magic presence, but one that diverged from the Emerald Kings. The Djynn of Wind had chosen him as a vessel... and I was born with virtually no magic power."
"We were to be... disposed of, an aberration that threatened the line. But when it came time, even the Emerald King Himself could not harm us, for we were born with a powerful enchantment upon us. The Djynn of Wind and Fulgora of Lightning had blessed us with their protection. And so... we lived."
He began walking again, his pace slow and heavy, as if each step carried the weight of his memories. Emerion fell in beside him, her mind reeling.
"Nalumere was... exceptional. Strong, steadfast, and a prodigal mage. I, on the other hand... was a total klutz, magic-less. But he always lifted me up whenever I fell. We have always had a... complex relationship with our elder brother. There were times he taught us, protected us, and played with us, and then other times he was cold... mean and distant. Jealousy, I see now." He sighed. "Nalumere was thought to have the potential to become a peerless mage, but not everyone saw his power as a boon; many saw it as abominable, a deadly threat to the sovereignty of the kingdom and our timeless traditions..."
His voice grew darker. "One day, when we were out playing near the old city ruins, a chasm opened up and Nalumere fell into the catacombs. I tumbled in after but hit my head on the way down and passed out. When I came to... my brother and I were tied up in a dark room. A group of men who looked like bandits had taken us captive. Nalumere tried to fight, but they held strange devices that allowed them to cancel out his magic. We were helpless and they started... beating him."
"That's horrible," Emerion breathed. "I can't imagine... but how did that cause Lyra to perish?"
Dalazar’s face was a mask of agony. "It was she who found us, her and her knights. They burst in, swords drawn. When I came to... I... I saw Nalumere on the floor, beaten within an inch of his life, his face a mask of purple and red. I saw Lyra, a whirlwind of steel, fighting off the bandits... it… It was overwhelming and before I knew it..." His fist slammed against the stone wall, the crack echoing down the tunnel. "I snapped."
"It was then... my birthright awakened... and the Emerald Soul, flared."
He turned to Emerion, his eyes wide with the remembered terror. "It wasn't a blessing, Emerion. It was a curse. A storm of raw power with no mind to guide it. My consciousness was shredded, replaced by a singular, primal instinct: destroy. But my power was vast, thirsty for blood and untamed, lashing out, killing foe and friend alike. Lyra... she was trying to get to us, to shield us. She was one of the first to fall."
His voice broke completely, becoming an agonized whisper. "A bolt of pure, green lightning. I didn't even know what I was doing. The last thing I saw before the rage consumed me completely was the horror on Nalumere's face. His magic flared, not to fight, but to contain. He poured every ounce of his being, the Djynn's gift, into a vortex of wind to subdue me... to stop the monster his brother had become."
A single tear traced a clean path down Dalazar's grimy cheek.
"He managed to subdue me... but... it cost him his life. The effort burned him out from the inside. He saved the others, he saved me from myself, and he died for it."
The story hung in the fetid air between them, a truth more suffocating than the stench of the aqueducts. Emerion finally understood. The 'terrible accident' was Dalazar. The reason for Myos's particular cruelty was this devastating secret he held over his brother's head. The anxiety he carried wasn't just for Evant's safety, but from the bone-deep terror of what lay dormant inside him.
Slowly, Emerion reached out and placed a hand on his arm. His muscles were rigid, trembling. He didn't pull away.
"Lyra, she was Myos's betrothed, " Dalazar finally said, his voice flat and dead. "He...was never the same after that...one might say, I killed two brothers that day...."
Emerion watched Dalazar from the corner of her eye. His broad shoulders were tense, his jaw set so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. His gaze, usually so full of defiant fire, was distant, lost in a darkness that had nothing to do with their subterranean path.
"You're worried about him... aren't you?" she asked, her voice soft but clear in the echoing channel.
Dalazar started, pulled from his reverie. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips, the sound jarringly loud. "Heh... is it that obvious? Here I was thinking I’ve got my poker face down pat."
They trudged on for another dozen paces before he spoke again, his voice dropping, losing its forced levity. "When... when I left the Kingdom, escaped Myos's grip, I never once stopped thinking of home. Of the horror he would put everyone through... least of all Evant." His hand, wrapped around the hilt of his sword, clenched until the knuckles were white. "I knew Myos would toy with him. He was always jealous of our bond... but after what happened in the catacombs...was after Lyra's death..."
"Lyra?" Emerion’s brow furrowed. The name was familiar, a story told in hushed tones in barracks and taverns. "The former captain of the Urso Vanguard..."
Dalazar’s voice became hitched, a raw edge of pain cutting through. "We... we heard she died in a terrible accident, but why would the Kin—Myos begrudge you for that?"
He stopped walking. The dirty water swirled around his ankles. He turned to face her, his eyes glistening in the faint light filtering from a grate far above. "Because...." He swallowed hard, the word catching in his throat. "I killed her."
Emerion stopped still, the filth around her feet forgotten. The dripping water seemed to fade into a roaring silence in her ears. Shock, cold, and sharp, pierced through her. This man, this noble, tormented prince she had sworn to follow... a killer? "I don't... understand."
Dalazar looked away, his gaze fixed on the grimy, weeping stone wall. "As you know... the Emerald King is not allowed to sire many children. He is allowed only one child during the solstice, where the storm power is at its peak and the highest chance of the Emerald gene being passed is present. A solstice that occurs only once every thousand years."
"Yes... I am aware," she whispered, the old law sounding alien and cruel in this dark place.
"Myos, the eldest, was born on such a solstice, and though his power is great, he did not inherit the gene." A bitter note entered his tone. "However... years later, the unexpected happened, another birth..." He took a shaky breath. "Twins. Nalumere and I, Dalazar. Nalumere was born with an incredible magic presence, but one that diverged from the Emerald Kings. The Djynn of Wind had chosen him as a vessel... and I was born with virtually no magic power."
"We were to be... disposed of, an aberration that threatened the line. But when it came time, even the Emerald King Himself could not harm us, for we were born with a powerful enchantment upon us. The Djynn of Wind and Fulgora of Lightning had blessed us with their protection. And so... we lived."
He began walking again, his pace slow and heavy, as if each step carried the weight of his memories. Emerion fell in beside him, her mind reeling.
"Nalumere was... exceptional. Strong, steadfast, and a prodigal mage. I, on the other hand... was a total klutz, magic-less. But he always lifted me up whenever I fell. We have always had a... complex relationship with our elder brother. There were times he taught us, protected us, and played with us, and then other times he was cold... mean and distant. Jealousy, I see now." He sighed. "Nalumere was thought to have the potential to become a peerless mage, but not everyone saw his power as a boon; many saw it as abominable, a deadly threat to the sovereignty of the kingdom and our timeless traditions..."
His voice grew darker. "One day, when we were out playing near the old city ruins, a chasm opened up and Nalumere fell into the catacombs. I tumbled in after but hit my head on the way down and passed out. When I came to... my brother and I were tied up in a dark room. A group of men who looked like bandits had taken us captive. Nalumere tried to fight, but they held strange devices that allowed them to cancel out his magic. We were helpless and they started... beating him."
"That's horrible," Emerion breathed. "I can't imagine... but how did that cause Lyra to perish?"
Dalazar’s face was a mask of agony. "It was she who found us, her and her knights. They burst in, swords drawn. When I came to... I... I saw Nalumere on the floor, beaten within an inch of his life, his face a mask of purple and red. I saw Lyra, a whirlwind of steel, fighting off the bandits... it… It was overwhelming and before I knew it..." His fist slammed against the stone wall, the crack echoing down the tunnel. "I snapped."
"It was then... my birthright awakened... and the Emerald Soul, flared."
He turned to Emerion, his eyes wide with the remembered terror. "It wasn't a blessing, Emerion. It was a curse. A storm of raw power with no mind to guide it. My consciousness was shredded, replaced by a singular, primal instinct: destroy. But my power was vast, thirsty for blood and untamed, lashing out, killing foe and friend alike. Lyra... she was trying to get to us, to shield us. She was one of the first to fall."
His voice broke completely, becoming an agonized whisper. "A bolt of pure, green lightning. I didn't even know what I was doing. The last thing I saw before the rage consumed me completely was the horror on Nalumere's face. His magic flared, not to fight, but to contain. He poured every ounce of his being, the Djynn's gift, into a vortex of wind to subdue me... to stop the monster his brother had become."
A single tear traced a clean path down Dalazar's grimy cheek.
"He managed to subdue me... but... it cost him his life. The effort burned him out from the inside. He saved the others, he saved me from myself, and he died for it."
The story hung in the fetid air between them, a truth more suffocating than the stench of the aqueducts. Emerion finally understood. The 'terrible accident' was Dalazar. The reason for Myos's particular cruelty was this devastating secret he held over his brother's head. The anxiety he carried wasn't just for Evant's safety, but from the bone-deep terror of what lay dormant inside him.
Slowly, Emerion reached out and placed a hand on his arm. His muscles were rigid, trembling. He didn't pull away.
"Lyra, she was Myos's betrothed, " Dalazar finally said, his voice flat and dead. "He...was never the same after that...one might say, I killed two brothers that day...."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
The stench of the sewer was a physical thing, a thick, cloying blanket of decay that clung to the back of the throat. It was a fitting atmosphere for the grave Dalazar had just dug for himself, laying bare the bones of his most monstrous secret. He had finished his tale, the words spilling out of him in a ragged, desperate torrent, and now awaited Emerion’s judgment. He expected her to recoil, to finally see the rot at his core that he had tried so desperately to conceal beneath layers of false charm and deflecting wit.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, maddening plink...plink...plink of water dripping from a crack in the ancient stone above. Each drop felt like a hammer blow against his sanity.
But Emerion did not pull away. The final, jagged piece of the puzzle slid into place, its edges sharp and cruel. Emerion’s mind, trained for the clarity of battlefield strategy, suddenly saw the entire, horrific tapestry of the royal family’s slow descent into ruin. She was never informed of these heinous happenings. It made her question her standing even before her exile. Had she ever truly been a Denkou? An Urso, what did it even mean to be the inheritor of a lineage you knew virtually nothing about? Blinded by greed, rank, and the pseudo sense of opulence. But now, she was beginning to see the bigger picture.
Myos's tournament was not just a wanton whim.
It wasn’t just a grab for power. It was a vendetta, born from a grief so profound it had curdled into pure, malevolent poison. Myos hadn't just lost his betrothed; he had lost her to the untamed power of the brother he already resented, the brother who possessed the one thing he coveted above all: the Emerald Soul.
Her hand, still on Dalazar’s arm, tightened its grip. He flinched, as if expecting a blow or a shove of revulsion. Instead, she held fast, her calloused fingers a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of his confession. The roaring in her ears subsided, replaced by the slow, steady drip of water once more. It was no longer maddening. It was a metronome, counting the seconds of a new, terrible understanding.
"That wasn't you, Dalazar," she said, her voice cutting through the fetid air with unwavering conviction. He looked up, his expression one of utter desolation, and she met his gaze without flinching. "That was a power you didn't understand. A calamity. You were a boy, caught in a nightmare."
"A boy who killed his own-," he choked out, the words tasting like ash.
"A boy whose brother saw the truth," Emerion countered, stepping closer. The foul water sloshed around her boots, unnoticed. "Nalumere didn't die stopping a monster. He died saving the brother he loved. He saw you, Dalazar, underneath that storm. He saw you, and he made a choice. Do not dishonor his sacrifice by calling it anything less."
The words struck Dalazar with the force of a physical blow. For years, he had seen that moment only through the lens of his guilt: a monster unleashed, a brother lost. He had never dared to consider it from Nalumere’s perspective—as an act of ultimate love and protection. He stared at Emerion, at the fierce loyalty burning in her eyes, a loyalty he felt he had never earned.
"Myos…" he began, his voice trailing off.
"Myos has twisted that day into the foundation of his throne," Emerion finished for him, her tone hardening. "He wasn't there to see a child lose control. He only saw the aftermath, and he let his grief make him a true monster. He has used your guilt as a chain, your secret as a whip. A whip that will forever lash at you until you make peace with what was....and welcome what has yet to come"
The truth of it settled over Dalazar, cold and absolute.
A profound shift occurred in Dalazar's bearing. The crushing weight on his shoulders didn't vanish, but it settled, transforming from an unbearable burden into a suit of grim armor. He straightened his back, pulling his arm from Emerion’s grasp not to push her away, but to reclaim himself. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the first that didn't feel like he was drowning.
"You're right," he said, and his voice was different. The forced levity was gone, the raw agony was banked. In its place was a quiet, chilling resolve. "You...sound just like Evant."
He looked down the long, dark tunnel, his gaze no longer lost in the past but fixed on the future, on the path ahead. The distant sound of rushing water grew louder, the scent of grime and muck giving way to the smell of crisp, cool air, invigorating. They had arrived at the barrier protecting the passage to Pana Chiyo, the Tomb of the Kings. Resting place of the previous Emerald Kings.
"We are close...I can..feel them."
Dalazar said as his Magic Sense, his innate ability to detect mystical influence, began to alert him to the magics ahead. The air thrummed with ancient power, a low hum that vibrated in his teeth. It was the legacy he had run from, the power he had feared, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like an inheritance waiting to be claimed.
Together, they moved forward, their steps no longer a weary trudge but the determined advance of a reckoning. The slow, steady drip of water was just a sound again, a rhythm marking the time until a fallen prince would face the brother he had broken, and reclaim the kingdom he had nearly drowned in blood.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, maddening plink...plink...plink of water dripping from a crack in the ancient stone above. Each drop felt like a hammer blow against his sanity.
But Emerion did not pull away. The final, jagged piece of the puzzle slid into place, its edges sharp and cruel. Emerion’s mind, trained for the clarity of battlefield strategy, suddenly saw the entire, horrific tapestry of the royal family’s slow descent into ruin. She was never informed of these heinous happenings. It made her question her standing even before her exile. Had she ever truly been a Denkou? An Urso, what did it even mean to be the inheritor of a lineage you knew virtually nothing about? Blinded by greed, rank, and the pseudo sense of opulence. But now, she was beginning to see the bigger picture.
Myos's tournament was not just a wanton whim.
It wasn’t just a grab for power. It was a vendetta, born from a grief so profound it had curdled into pure, malevolent poison. Myos hadn't just lost his betrothed; he had lost her to the untamed power of the brother he already resented, the brother who possessed the one thing he coveted above all: the Emerald Soul.
Her hand, still on Dalazar’s arm, tightened its grip. He flinched, as if expecting a blow or a shove of revulsion. Instead, she held fast, her calloused fingers a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of his confession. The roaring in her ears subsided, replaced by the slow, steady drip of water once more. It was no longer maddening. It was a metronome, counting the seconds of a new, terrible understanding.
"That wasn't you, Dalazar," she said, her voice cutting through the fetid air with unwavering conviction. He looked up, his expression one of utter desolation, and she met his gaze without flinching. "That was a power you didn't understand. A calamity. You were a boy, caught in a nightmare."
"A boy who killed his own-," he choked out, the words tasting like ash.
"A boy whose brother saw the truth," Emerion countered, stepping closer. The foul water sloshed around her boots, unnoticed. "Nalumere didn't die stopping a monster. He died saving the brother he loved. He saw you, Dalazar, underneath that storm. He saw you, and he made a choice. Do not dishonor his sacrifice by calling it anything less."
The words struck Dalazar with the force of a physical blow. For years, he had seen that moment only through the lens of his guilt: a monster unleashed, a brother lost. He had never dared to consider it from Nalumere’s perspective—as an act of ultimate love and protection. He stared at Emerion, at the fierce loyalty burning in her eyes, a loyalty he felt he had never earned.
"Myos…" he began, his voice trailing off.
"Myos has twisted that day into the foundation of his throne," Emerion finished for him, her tone hardening. "He wasn't there to see a child lose control. He only saw the aftermath, and he let his grief make him a true monster. He has used your guilt as a chain, your secret as a whip. A whip that will forever lash at you until you make peace with what was....and welcome what has yet to come"
The truth of it settled over Dalazar, cold and absolute.
A profound shift occurred in Dalazar's bearing. The crushing weight on his shoulders didn't vanish, but it settled, transforming from an unbearable burden into a suit of grim armor. He straightened his back, pulling his arm from Emerion’s grasp not to push her away, but to reclaim himself. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the first that didn't feel like he was drowning.
"You're right," he said, and his voice was different. The forced levity was gone, the raw agony was banked. In its place was a quiet, chilling resolve. "You...sound just like Evant."
He looked down the long, dark tunnel, his gaze no longer lost in the past but fixed on the future, on the path ahead. The distant sound of rushing water grew louder, the scent of grime and muck giving way to the smell of crisp, cool air, invigorating. They had arrived at the barrier protecting the passage to Pana Chiyo, the Tomb of the Kings. Resting place of the previous Emerald Kings.
"We are close...I can..feel them."
Dalazar said as his Magic Sense, his innate ability to detect mystical influence, began to alert him to the magics ahead. The air thrummed with ancient power, a low hum that vibrated in his teeth. It was the legacy he had run from, the power he had feared, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like an inheritance waiting to be claimed.
Together, they moved forward, their steps no longer a weary trudge but the determined advance of a reckoning. The slow, steady drip of water was just a sound again, a rhythm marking the time until a fallen prince would face the brother he had broken, and reclaim the kingdom he had nearly drowned in blood.
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
They reached the barrier, a shimmering, translucent wall of light that stretched from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall. Golden runes, intricate and powerful, swam across its surface like fish in a current, a meticulous and potent ward against any unfit to enter the sacred Tomb of Kings.
Dalazar, the Sixth Emerald King, stepped before it. He raised his hand, and the air around his palm began to crackle. Emerald lightning, the tempestuous magic of his birthright, coiled around his fingers, not as a weapon of fury, but as a key of intricate purpose. He pressed his hand against the ward.
The lightning did not shatter it, but flowed into it, hissing softly as it found purchase. The golden runes on the barrier flared, recognizing the signature of their master's lineage. One by one, they unspooled, their light dimming as the ancient enchantment was systematically dismantled from within. With a final, resonant chime that vibrated in their very bones, the curtain of light dissolved into a fine, glittering dust that settled on the floor and vanished.
"Fulgora's Ankles..."
Emerion's voice leapt from her, echoing through the vast expanse. Dalazar's own mouth ached. It was like they had stepped into an entirely new world.
"Is this...is this really under the Denkou Kingdom?"
Emoerion's curiosity begged, but nothing offered an answer.
They stood on a wide, polished basalt ledge overlooking a cavern of impossible scale. The ceiling was so high it was lost in shadow, save for where the ethereal glow from below kissed colossal, hanging stalactites, making them look like the fangs of a sleeping god. The source of the light, the source of the power, was the lake.
It was not water, but a vast, placid sea of liquid, raw naten. It glowed with an inner luminescence, a swirling, viscous ocean of pure emerald energy. Slow, silent eddies drifted across its surface, and the air above it shimmered with visible waves of power. The sound they had heard was not rushing water, but the hum of the lake, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated in the bones and sang to the soul.
From an unseen fissure high in the cavern wall, a colossal waterfall of this same substance poured down, a silent, thundering cascade of light that fed the lake without a single splash, merging seamlessly with the whole. The surface moved not with waves, but with slow, deliberate pulses, like a slumbering deity's breath.
Arranged along the shore of this impossible lake were three massive sepulchers. They were not coffins, but monoliths of polished jade, each the size of a small cottage, seeming to grow directly from the stone floor. They were ancient, their surfaces worn smooth by millennia, etched with the lineage and deeds of the kings they housed in a script so old it felt like a memory. These were the tombs of the second, third, and fourth kings, stern and silent guardians on the edge of eternity, their presence a weight of history and power.
Dalazar’s gaze, however, was drawn past them to the fifth. It was set slightly apart, closer to the entrance ledge where they stood. This one was different. The green marble was newer, its edges sharp, the intricate silver inlay depicting a roaring dragon still gleaming as if polished that morning. It was unblemished by the dust of ages, a stark reminder of how recently it had been sealed. This was the fifth sepulcher. This was where Dracovis, his father, rested. A pang, sharp and familiar, pierced Dalazar’s resolve, but he forced it down, compressing the grief into a hard.
Dalazar reached out, his fingers tracing the sharp, unblemished edge of the silver inlay. “I am here, Father,” he murmured, his voice thick. “As you knew I would be.”
He felt Emerion’s presence behind him, a silent, steady pillar of support. She did not speak, granting him the sanctity of his grief. For a long moment, Dalazar stood there, the son mourning the father. But the deep, resonant hum of the lake was a constant reminder of why he had come. He was not just a son. He was the Sixth.
His gaze lifted, drawn to the heart of the cavern, to the actual seat of power. There, suspended a dozen feet above the glowing, liquid energy, was the tomb of the First King. It was not built, but grown. A single, massive, flawless emerald crystal, faceted by nature and time into a perfect sarcophagus. It was a chrysalis of pure magic, hovering in silent, absolute majesty, absorbing the cavern’s light and refracting it into a thousand dancing emerald stars upon the shadowed walls.
It was tethered to the lake below by three thick, shimmering strands of solidified naten that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light, like a beating heart. Within that crystalline vessel, wreathed in the power he had first commanded, slept Ains. The First King did not rest in the earth; he slept in the very heart of his power, a timeless anchor for the lineage that now fell to Dalazar.
"It is him...The Founder..."
Dalazar, the Sixth Emerald King, stepped before it. He raised his hand, and the air around his palm began to crackle. Emerald lightning, the tempestuous magic of his birthright, coiled around his fingers, not as a weapon of fury, but as a key of intricate purpose. He pressed his hand against the ward.
The lightning did not shatter it, but flowed into it, hissing softly as it found purchase. The golden runes on the barrier flared, recognizing the signature of their master's lineage. One by one, they unspooled, their light dimming as the ancient enchantment was systematically dismantled from within. With a final, resonant chime that vibrated in their very bones, the curtain of light dissolved into a fine, glittering dust that settled on the floor and vanished.
"Fulgora's Ankles..."
Emerion's voice leapt from her, echoing through the vast expanse. Dalazar's own mouth ached. It was like they had stepped into an entirely new world.
"Is this...is this really under the Denkou Kingdom?"
Emoerion's curiosity begged, but nothing offered an answer.
They stood on a wide, polished basalt ledge overlooking a cavern of impossible scale. The ceiling was so high it was lost in shadow, save for where the ethereal glow from below kissed colossal, hanging stalactites, making them look like the fangs of a sleeping god. The source of the light, the source of the power, was the lake.
It was not water, but a vast, placid sea of liquid, raw naten. It glowed with an inner luminescence, a swirling, viscous ocean of pure emerald energy. Slow, silent eddies drifted across its surface, and the air above it shimmered with visible waves of power. The sound they had heard was not rushing water, but the hum of the lake, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated in the bones and sang to the soul.
From an unseen fissure high in the cavern wall, a colossal waterfall of this same substance poured down, a silent, thundering cascade of light that fed the lake without a single splash, merging seamlessly with the whole. The surface moved not with waves, but with slow, deliberate pulses, like a slumbering deity's breath.
Arranged along the shore of this impossible lake were three massive sepulchers. They were not coffins, but monoliths of polished jade, each the size of a small cottage, seeming to grow directly from the stone floor. They were ancient, their surfaces worn smooth by millennia, etched with the lineage and deeds of the kings they housed in a script so old it felt like a memory. These were the tombs of the second, third, and fourth kings, stern and silent guardians on the edge of eternity, their presence a weight of history and power.
Dalazar’s gaze, however, was drawn past them to the fifth. It was set slightly apart, closer to the entrance ledge where they stood. This one was different. The green marble was newer, its edges sharp, the intricate silver inlay depicting a roaring dragon still gleaming as if polished that morning. It was unblemished by the dust of ages, a stark reminder of how recently it had been sealed. This was the fifth sepulcher. This was where Dracovis, his father, rested. A pang, sharp and familiar, pierced Dalazar’s resolve, but he forced it down, compressing the grief into a hard.
Dalazar reached out, his fingers tracing the sharp, unblemished edge of the silver inlay. “I am here, Father,” he murmured, his voice thick. “As you knew I would be.”
He felt Emerion’s presence behind him, a silent, steady pillar of support. She did not speak, granting him the sanctity of his grief. For a long moment, Dalazar stood there, the son mourning the father. But the deep, resonant hum of the lake was a constant reminder of why he had come. He was not just a son. He was the Sixth.
His gaze lifted, drawn to the heart of the cavern, to the actual seat of power. There, suspended a dozen feet above the glowing, liquid energy, was the tomb of the First King. It was not built, but grown. A single, massive, flawless emerald crystal, faceted by nature and time into a perfect sarcophagus. It was a chrysalis of pure magic, hovering in silent, absolute majesty, absorbing the cavern’s light and refracting it into a thousand dancing emerald stars upon the shadowed walls.
It was tethered to the lake below by three thick, shimmering strands of solidified naten that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light, like a beating heart. Within that crystalline vessel, wreathed in the power he had first commanded, slept Ains. The First King did not rest in the earth; he slept in the very heart of his power, a timeless anchor for the lineage that now fell to Dalazar.
"It is him...The Founder..."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
Dalazar felt a pull, an undeniable summons. As he took a step towards the lake's edge, the naten responded. A bridge of solid, emerald light solidified from the liquid energy, extending from the basalt shore to the floating tomb. It didn't rise from the depths; it simply was, coalescing into existence in silent obedience to his will.
It was solid, yet felt like walking on condensed air, cool and humming against the soles of his boots. Each footfall sent a soft, chiming ripple across its surface, disturbing the placid lake below with concentric rings of emerald luminescence. The thrum of the cavern intensified with every step, a symphony of power that resonated not just in his ears, but in his very bones, in the magic that was his birthright. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something older, something akin to petrichor, the smell of ancient earth after a storm of pure energy.
He walked alone. His companions remained on the basalt shore, watchful silhouettes against the glowing backdrop, understanding this was a pilgrimage only he could make. His gaze was fixed on the chrysalis of the First King. As he drew closer, he could see intricate patterns within the emerald crystal, not carved, but formed as part of its very structure. They were like the veins of a leaf or the frost on a winter pane, depicting star charts of forgotten constellations, lineages of power, and the spiraling, double-helix form of pure naten. This was not just a tomb; it was a library, a testament, a nexus.
He reached the end of the spectral bridge, standing on a small platform of the same solidified light that orbited the sarcophagus. The three tethers of solidified naten connecting it to the lake pulsed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, like three great arteries feeding a sleeping heart. He could feel the sheer, overwhelming power contained within the crystal—a dormant volcano of magic, the wellspring from which his entire line had drawn their strength.
Reverently, he reached out, his fingers hesitating just inches from the cool, crystalline surface. The static in the air caressed his skin, his emerald lightning stirring in his veins, answering the call of its progenitor. He pressed his palm flat against the tomb.
The moment his skin made contact, the world dissolved around him.
The thrum of the cavern did not cease; it intensified a thousandfold, becoming the only thing in existence. It was no longer a sound in his ears, but a vibration that consumed his mind. The cavern, the lake, the sepulchers of his ancestors—all of it dissolved, not into darkness, but into a blinding, all-encompassing maelstrom of emerald light and shadow. He felt a profound sense of weightlessness, as if unmoored from time, space, and his own physical body. The sensation was not violent, but absolute, like a drop of water rejoining the ocean.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the chaos subsided, coalescing into a new reality.
He stood on an endless plane of polished, jet-black obsidian that reflected a heaven he had never seen. Above him, there was no sky, no sun or moon, but a vast, slow-moving river of liquid emerald light—the naten of the lake, now transformed into a celestial canopy. Nebulae of sapphire and amethyst swirled in its depths, and distant, silent bursts of silver light bloomed and faded like cosmic flowers. The air was still, yet carried the same ancient hum of power, now a soft, omnipresent chorus.
He was no longer in the tomb. He was within its spirit, its very essence.
A figure began to form from the ambient light before him, coalescing from the celestial river above. It was not a ghost, but a being woven from the fabric of this place. He was taller than any man Dalazar had known, broad-shouldered and regal. He was clad in archaic, ornate armor that seemed to have been crafted from solidified starlight and shadow, its design both elegant and brutally functional.
His face was a mask of stern nobility, a face Dalazar had seen only in ancient statues—handsome, yet severe, with a jawline that could have been carved from granite and a brow heavy with the weight of ages. But it was his eyes that held Dalazar captive. They were not colored irises, but twin pools of the same swirling emerald energy that composed the sky, keeping the accumulated wisdom and power of centuries. They were the very same eyes he awakened, but weeks ago...
The figure’s lips did not move, but a voice echoed through the plane, a sound that was not heard but felt, a resonance that bloomed directly in Dalazar’s consciousness. It was a voice like the grinding of tectonic plates and the chime of crystal, ancient and absolute.
"You have come," the voice stated, a simple fact acknowledged across the gulf of time. "You carry the spark. The Emerald Ocean... Our legacy."
The great figure inclined his head, a gesture of solemn welcome, not of submission. The starlight in his armor glinted, and the cosmos in his eyes seemed to shift.
"Dalazar, Sixth of our line," the visage of Ains, the First King, proclaimed. "Welcome."
It was then seated upon various thrones, and four other figures manifested.
"Welcome to the Sovereign's Plane."
It was solid, yet felt like walking on condensed air, cool and humming against the soles of his boots. Each footfall sent a soft, chiming ripple across its surface, disturbing the placid lake below with concentric rings of emerald luminescence. The thrum of the cavern intensified with every step, a symphony of power that resonated not just in his ears, but in his very bones, in the magic that was his birthright. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something older, something akin to petrichor, the smell of ancient earth after a storm of pure energy.
He walked alone. His companions remained on the basalt shore, watchful silhouettes against the glowing backdrop, understanding this was a pilgrimage only he could make. His gaze was fixed on the chrysalis of the First King. As he drew closer, he could see intricate patterns within the emerald crystal, not carved, but formed as part of its very structure. They were like the veins of a leaf or the frost on a winter pane, depicting star charts of forgotten constellations, lineages of power, and the spiraling, double-helix form of pure naten. This was not just a tomb; it was a library, a testament, a nexus.
He reached the end of the spectral bridge, standing on a small platform of the same solidified light that orbited the sarcophagus. The three tethers of solidified naten connecting it to the lake pulsed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, like three great arteries feeding a sleeping heart. He could feel the sheer, overwhelming power contained within the crystal—a dormant volcano of magic, the wellspring from which his entire line had drawn their strength.
Reverently, he reached out, his fingers hesitating just inches from the cool, crystalline surface. The static in the air caressed his skin, his emerald lightning stirring in his veins, answering the call of its progenitor. He pressed his palm flat against the tomb.
The moment his skin made contact, the world dissolved around him.
The thrum of the cavern did not cease; it intensified a thousandfold, becoming the only thing in existence. It was no longer a sound in his ears, but a vibration that consumed his mind. The cavern, the lake, the sepulchers of his ancestors—all of it dissolved, not into darkness, but into a blinding, all-encompassing maelstrom of emerald light and shadow. He felt a profound sense of weightlessness, as if unmoored from time, space, and his own physical body. The sensation was not violent, but absolute, like a drop of water rejoining the ocean.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the chaos subsided, coalescing into a new reality.
He stood on an endless plane of polished, jet-black obsidian that reflected a heaven he had never seen. Above him, there was no sky, no sun or moon, but a vast, slow-moving river of liquid emerald light—the naten of the lake, now transformed into a celestial canopy. Nebulae of sapphire and amethyst swirled in its depths, and distant, silent bursts of silver light bloomed and faded like cosmic flowers. The air was still, yet carried the same ancient hum of power, now a soft, omnipresent chorus.
He was no longer in the tomb. He was within its spirit, its very essence.
A figure began to form from the ambient light before him, coalescing from the celestial river above. It was not a ghost, but a being woven from the fabric of this place. He was taller than any man Dalazar had known, broad-shouldered and regal. He was clad in archaic, ornate armor that seemed to have been crafted from solidified starlight and shadow, its design both elegant and brutally functional.
His face was a mask of stern nobility, a face Dalazar had seen only in ancient statues—handsome, yet severe, with a jawline that could have been carved from granite and a brow heavy with the weight of ages. But it was his eyes that held Dalazar captive. They were not colored irises, but twin pools of the same swirling emerald energy that composed the sky, keeping the accumulated wisdom and power of centuries. They were the very same eyes he awakened, but weeks ago...
The figure’s lips did not move, but a voice echoed through the plane, a sound that was not heard but felt, a resonance that bloomed directly in Dalazar’s consciousness. It was a voice like the grinding of tectonic plates and the chime of crystal, ancient and absolute.
"You have come," the voice stated, a simple fact acknowledged across the gulf of time. "You carry the spark. The Emerald Ocean... Our legacy."
The great figure inclined his head, a gesture of solemn welcome, not of submission. The starlight in his armor glinted, and the cosmos in his eyes seemed to shift.
"Dalazar, Sixth of our line," the visage of Ains, the First King, proclaimed. "Welcome."
It was then seated upon various thrones, and four other figures manifested.
"Welcome to the Sovereign's Plane."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
To Ains’s immediate right sat a man whose armor was less for war and more for ceremony, etched with intricate patterns like a master architect’s blueprint. This was Nivian, the Second King, known as ‘The Builder,’ who had established the great cities of their kingdom. Beside him sat Valerius, ‘The Iron Hammer,’ the Third King, a grim figure whose armor was scarred and dented, his spirit radiating an aura of unbending law and relentless conquest.
Next was Roric, ‘The Star-Gazer,’ the Fourth King, whose gaze seemed fixed on the celestial river above; his presence was calmer and more contemplative. And on the final, occupied throne, sat a man whose face Dalazar knew better than his own. His father, Dracovis, the Fifth King. He looked younger, stronger than Dalazar remembered him in his final days. Leaner, nothing like the mountain of a man he once knew.
The king in emerald threads, Nivian, spoke, his voice like the shifting of foundation stones. "You have crossed the threshold while alive, young king. A feat not accomplished in centuries."
Roric added his voice, a whisper that carried like a shout. "The threads of fate have woven you a dark and glorious path, Sixth."
The warrior in iron grunted, Valerius's voice a gravelly echo of a thousand battlefields. "Hmph. He stands. That's more than most could do."
And then, a voice that made Dalazar’s heart clench. "My son." Dracovis, the Fifth King, looked at him, the emerald cosmos in his eyes swirling with an emotion the others lacked: love. "Lord Sixth, welcome indeed."
Dalazar swallowed, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on him. He stood before the accumulated history of his entire lineage. "I… I don't understand. This place…"
Ains inclined his head, the celestial river above them pulsing in time with his presence. "This is not a place of stone and air, Dalazar. It is a place of spirit—an anchor for our souls. When our mortal forms shed their coil, we ascend here. Our consciousness, our memories, our power… it all resides within the Emerald Soul you now carry."
"So you are… ghosts?" Dalazar asked, the word feeling small and inadequate.
" Haha, No," said Dracovis, his voice gentle. "We are... living memory, sustained by our connection to those who come before. We are immortal, but our immortality is a chain, and you, my son, are the final link. Our only tether to the world of the living. Without an heir to carry the Emerald Soul, we would fade into the light, our legacy forgotten."
Dalazar’s mind reeled, but he forced himself to focus. Though to know, this entire time he thought himself alone, he carried the spark of his father, and the other kings within him was a great comfort. He was never truly alone.
There were more pressing truths he needed to know. He looked directly at the First King, the progenitor of it all. "Ains. I came here seeking answers. I fought your brother, Okina. He spoke of our people… the Denkou-Shi. In defeating him, something awakened in me. A power I don't understand. He called it the Dankestu, said it was our true anthem. Please tell me why you came to the Emerald Ascension. Who is Azar truly, and why did you erase the minds of our people?"
A silence fell over the plane, heavier than any before. The other kings looked to Ains, their ancient faces impassive. The First King’s emerald eyes seemed to gaze through Dalazar, back across a chasm of time.
A flicker of something ancient and painful crossed Ains’s noble features. The emerald in his eyes churned like a stormy sea. "Okina…" the name was a deep, sorrowful vibration. "So, his hatred endured even the crucible of death...To understand what you are, you must understand where we came from. Not the gilded kingdom you know, but a land of shadow and steel called Edo."
Next was Roric, ‘The Star-Gazer,’ the Fourth King, whose gaze seemed fixed on the celestial river above; his presence was calmer and more contemplative. And on the final, occupied throne, sat a man whose face Dalazar knew better than his own. His father, Dracovis, the Fifth King. He looked younger, stronger than Dalazar remembered him in his final days. Leaner, nothing like the mountain of a man he once knew.
The king in emerald threads, Nivian, spoke, his voice like the shifting of foundation stones. "You have crossed the threshold while alive, young king. A feat not accomplished in centuries."
Roric added his voice, a whisper that carried like a shout. "The threads of fate have woven you a dark and glorious path, Sixth."
The warrior in iron grunted, Valerius's voice a gravelly echo of a thousand battlefields. "Hmph. He stands. That's more than most could do."
And then, a voice that made Dalazar’s heart clench. "My son." Dracovis, the Fifth King, looked at him, the emerald cosmos in his eyes swirling with an emotion the others lacked: love. "Lord Sixth, welcome indeed."
Dalazar swallowed, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on him. He stood before the accumulated history of his entire lineage. "I… I don't understand. This place…"
Ains inclined his head, the celestial river above them pulsing in time with his presence. "This is not a place of stone and air, Dalazar. It is a place of spirit—an anchor for our souls. When our mortal forms shed their coil, we ascend here. Our consciousness, our memories, our power… it all resides within the Emerald Soul you now carry."
"So you are… ghosts?" Dalazar asked, the word feeling small and inadequate.
" Haha, No," said Dracovis, his voice gentle. "We are... living memory, sustained by our connection to those who come before. We are immortal, but our immortality is a chain, and you, my son, are the final link. Our only tether to the world of the living. Without an heir to carry the Emerald Soul, we would fade into the light, our legacy forgotten."
Dalazar’s mind reeled, but he forced himself to focus. Though to know, this entire time he thought himself alone, he carried the spark of his father, and the other kings within him was a great comfort. He was never truly alone.
There were more pressing truths he needed to know. He looked directly at the First King, the progenitor of it all. "Ains. I came here seeking answers. I fought your brother, Okina. He spoke of our people… the Denkou-Shi. In defeating him, something awakened in me. A power I don't understand. He called it the Dankestu, said it was our true anthem. Please tell me why you came to the Emerald Ascension. Who is Azar truly, and why did you erase the minds of our people?"
A silence fell over the plane, heavier than any before. The other kings looked to Ains, their ancient faces impassive. The First King’s emerald eyes seemed to gaze through Dalazar, back across a chasm of time.
A flicker of something ancient and painful crossed Ains’s noble features. The emerald in his eyes churned like a stormy sea. "Okina…" the name was a deep, sorrowful vibration. "So, his hatred endured even the crucible of death...To understand what you are, you must understand where we came from. Not the gilded kingdom you know, but a land of shadow and steel called Edo."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
Ains’s gaze turned inward, across millennia. "Long before I was a king, I was a boy. Born on a harsh, mist-shrouded continent known as Edo. The Land of the Shinobi. We were not a noble people at the time. We were survivors, killers, spies… ruthless, for the world demanded it. Our power, the power you now wield, was not born of royal decree, but of cosmic war. The result of betrayal, a curse etched onto our very souls..."
Dalazar listened, transfixed.
"In the dawn of the First Astral year," Ains continued, his voice painting pictures in Dalazar’s mind, "two primordial deities clashed over the nascent world. They were not gods as men understand them, but Djynn. Ancient fae, Twin serpents of immense power. Aphosis, the Djynn of Darkness and Chaos, and its twin, Zincara, the Djynn of Light and Order. Their struggle was the very pulse of creation."
"The burgeoning tribes of men on Edo, seeing these phenomena, began to worship them. Through ritual, through belief, through awe and fear, they fed the serpents. Thus, the power of Ao or Reverence was born. The serpents found that the belief of mortals could amplify their essence."
Roric the Seer spoke, his voice a soft rustle. "A dangerous discovery. To give mortals sway over the divine."
Ains nodded in acknowledgment. "Indeed. For a time, balance was kept. But as mankind grew more complex, so did their prayers. Their understanding of Chaos and Order evolved. To manage this influx, the twin serpents sired lesser Djynn from their own being."
The First King raised a hand, and images swirled in the emerald river above.
"From Chaos came Chikara, the Djynn of Power; Nikushimi, the Djynn of Hatred; Hakai, the Djynn of Destruction; and the youngest, a name I am sure you recognize. Fulgora, the Djynn of Ambition."
The light in the sky darkened, tinged with violent reds and grasping shadows.
"From Order came Kibo, the Djynn of Hope; Masayoshi, the Djynn of Justice; and Chie, the Djynn of Wisdom....and Azar, the Djynn of Valor; "
The emerald canopy brightened with hues of gold and calming blue. Dalzar's eyes widened at the mention of Azar's name.
"Together, they formed the Pantheon of Zen. But the children soon outshone the parents. The tales of the Djynn’s triumphs, their gifts, and their curses became the songs on every lip. The reverence for Aphosis and Zincara dwindled, redirected to their offspring. Zincara accepted this as the nature of Order—to evolve and change. But Aphosis… Aphosis was Chaos. It knew only hunger. Sovereignty"
Valerius the Iron-Hand snorted. "Power never yields its throne willingly."
"Never," Ains affirmed, his voice dropping to a grim tone. "Fearing its own fading, Aphosis committed an act of ultimate betrayal. In a fit of cosmic gluttony, it devoured its own children—Chikara, Nikushimi, Hakai. It absorbed their domains, their very essence, and became something monstrous. A superior entity known as the 'Black Sun.' A giant, four-headed serpent of unimaginable power."
The celestial river above them churned, turning a sickly, oppressive black, shot through with veins of baleful energy.
"Wielding this stolen might," Ains’s voice was now a solemn dirge, " the Black Sun launched a final, decisive strike. It did not kill Zincara—it did worse. It sealed the Djynn of Order and all her children away within a celestial prison, an artifact it named the Godstone. With the light extinguished, Chaos reigned absolutely on Edo. This was the beginning of the Sun Eater’s Augury—a lawless, endless age of darkness, bloodshed, and brutal combat. Chaos was no longer a concept; it was the air they breathed, the water they drank, the law of the land."
Ains lowered his hand, and the oppressive darkness receded, returning to the swirling emerald of the Sovereign’s Plane. He fixed his ancient eyes on Dalazar, the full weight of his history behind them.
"It was in this crucible of shadow and blood, Sixth King," he proclaimed, " that our people, the shinobi, were forged. It was in this darkness that we first learned to harness its power… and to fight it."
Dalazar listened, transfixed.
"In the dawn of the First Astral year," Ains continued, his voice painting pictures in Dalazar’s mind, "two primordial deities clashed over the nascent world. They were not gods as men understand them, but Djynn. Ancient fae, Twin serpents of immense power. Aphosis, the Djynn of Darkness and Chaos, and its twin, Zincara, the Djynn of Light and Order. Their struggle was the very pulse of creation."
"The burgeoning tribes of men on Edo, seeing these phenomena, began to worship them. Through ritual, through belief, through awe and fear, they fed the serpents. Thus, the power of Ao or Reverence was born. The serpents found that the belief of mortals could amplify their essence."
Roric the Seer spoke, his voice a soft rustle. "A dangerous discovery. To give mortals sway over the divine."
Ains nodded in acknowledgment. "Indeed. For a time, balance was kept. But as mankind grew more complex, so did their prayers. Their understanding of Chaos and Order evolved. To manage this influx, the twin serpents sired lesser Djynn from their own being."
The First King raised a hand, and images swirled in the emerald river above.
"From Chaos came Chikara, the Djynn of Power; Nikushimi, the Djynn of Hatred; Hakai, the Djynn of Destruction; and the youngest, a name I am sure you recognize. Fulgora, the Djynn of Ambition."
The light in the sky darkened, tinged with violent reds and grasping shadows.
"From Order came Kibo, the Djynn of Hope; Masayoshi, the Djynn of Justice; and Chie, the Djynn of Wisdom....and Azar, the Djynn of Valor; "
The emerald canopy brightened with hues of gold and calming blue. Dalzar's eyes widened at the mention of Azar's name.
"Together, they formed the Pantheon of Zen. But the children soon outshone the parents. The tales of the Djynn’s triumphs, their gifts, and their curses became the songs on every lip. The reverence for Aphosis and Zincara dwindled, redirected to their offspring. Zincara accepted this as the nature of Order—to evolve and change. But Aphosis… Aphosis was Chaos. It knew only hunger. Sovereignty"
Valerius the Iron-Hand snorted. "Power never yields its throne willingly."
"Never," Ains affirmed, his voice dropping to a grim tone. "Fearing its own fading, Aphosis committed an act of ultimate betrayal. In a fit of cosmic gluttony, it devoured its own children—Chikara, Nikushimi, Hakai. It absorbed their domains, their very essence, and became something monstrous. A superior entity known as the 'Black Sun.' A giant, four-headed serpent of unimaginable power."
The celestial river above them churned, turning a sickly, oppressive black, shot through with veins of baleful energy.
"Wielding this stolen might," Ains’s voice was now a solemn dirge, " the Black Sun launched a final, decisive strike. It did not kill Zincara—it did worse. It sealed the Djynn of Order and all her children away within a celestial prison, an artifact it named the Godstone. With the light extinguished, Chaos reigned absolutely on Edo. This was the beginning of the Sun Eater’s Augury—a lawless, endless age of darkness, bloodshed, and brutal combat. Chaos was no longer a concept; it was the air they breathed, the water they drank, the law of the land."
Ains lowered his hand, and the oppressive darkness receded, returning to the swirling emerald of the Sovereign’s Plane. He fixed his ancient eyes on Dalazar, the full weight of his history behind them.
"It was in this crucible of shadow and blood, Sixth King," he proclaimed, " that our people, the shinobi, were forged. It was in this darkness that we first learned to harness its power… and to fight it."
-
Dalazar Denkou
- Drifter
- Posts: 233
- Joined: Sat Feb 16, 2019 8:39 pm
Re: A Dynasty Falls
He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle. "Just when it seemed that Edo would forever be clad in eternal strife, an unforeseen development occurred. Fulgora, the Djynn of Ambition to avoid servitude, saw that the only way to escape its creators' grasp was a mortal vessel, a shortcut to power. It hid itself in the soul of a shinobi who, though born to a meager clan, held an ambition so ravenous that Fulgora was drawn to him like a beacon."
A new figure coalesced in the emerald memory-stream, a man cloaked in shadow, his eyes burning with an inner fire. "The name of this Shinobi is Tero Denkou-Shi, the true founder of all Denkou-Shi." The name hung in the air, a name so significant yet none in his kingdom had heard it.
"With the influence of the Djynn and its cosmic guidance, Tero's mystic abilities became so significant that he became a near peerless master of Ephermal Arts, possessing powerful techniques capable of shifting the tide of battle in his favor. His legend began to rise, and many shinobi came to follow him as he shared the knowledge of the Ephermal Arts. They called him the 'Mystic One.' Eventually, his prowess made an impression on Aphosis, who saw in Tero's ambition a perfect tool. The Nether Serpent invited him to become the first of a new pantheon—the Sun Eaters."
Dalazar leaned forward. This was the mythic schism.
"Tero served the Black Sun's aims, disguising himself as its most loyal champion, claiming many victories in its name. But his true ambition, fueled by Fulgora, was to find the Godstone spoken of in whispers by the Djynn. He planned to harness its power for his own, bringing Order itself under his control and all of Edo under his dogma. He nearly succeeded, eventually managing to get his hands on the stone. Nevertheless, this was all according to Aphosis's plan."
Ains smiled, a grim, knowing expression. "The Nether Serpent knew its spawn. Greed and ambition were its domain, after all. For Aphosis, its power was still incomplete, and Fulgora was the final piece of the puzzle. By absorbing its ambitious child, it would possess a power sufficient to digest the Godstone, becoming a perfect being, an Embodiment of both Order and Chaos. A true god."
The scene in the river intensified. Tero stood before a pulsating crystal, the Godstone, his hands reaching for it. As he tried to absorb its power, he found himself unable to do so. A vortex of darkness erupted from the sky—Aphosis, descending to claim its prize. "Before he and the stone could be devoured," Ains narrated, his voice tight with tension, "Tero, using the last of his strength and Fulgora's desperate power, managed to crack the Godstone."
A blinding light erupted from the memory-stream, forcing Dalazar to shield his eyes. "The crack freed Zincara and the rest of the Zen Pantheon from their ancient prison. Zincara and her brood waged a fierce battle against Aphosis, but it was hopeless. The power of the demon had grown far beyond them, having had a thousand years of singular access to mortal reverence. Yet, all was not lost. Zincara took a page from Aphosis's book and sought to merge its form with its other spawn."
Ains’s voice was devoid of judgment, stating cosmic fact. "Zincara, with her dominion over Order, compelled the other Djynn to join her, enthralling them against their wills. Like its counterpart, Zincara was not adherent to the notions of 'Good' or 'Evil.' Light can scathe, and darkness can soothe. Its sole purpose was its eternal cause: to quell the flames of chaos created by Aphosis, and it would do whatever was needed to achieve this aim."
"Each Djynn gave itself to Zincara, including Fulgora, the Djynn of Ambition still residing within Tero. They merged with the serpent of Light and Order, becoming the first Beryl Sun. However, not all went precisely as Zincara had hoped. Fulgora's will, bonded with Tero's indomitable ambition, had grown far too strong. Their combined will overrode that of the others, becoming the ruling personality of the new entity, robbing Zincara of its sentience and treating its ancient power as mere glue to hold the Beryl Sun together."
The image above showed a magnificent, terrifying creature of emerald light, a sun with a mind of ambition. "The fierce titans waged a war that nearly brought Edo to total ruin. With the combined might of the others, this new Fulgora-Sun managed to tear each of the heads from Aphosis and seal them in what it dubbed soul stones, before sealing Aphosis itself in a new Godstone. But not before Aphosis, in its final moments, laid a curse upon the man who had engineered its downfall. His laborious ambition played a part in the rise of the shinobi, and its demise would be born from his lineage. A curse known as Danketsu: eyes that steal the soul of those they gaze upon, and an insatiable thirst for more power."
Ains met Dalazar's eyes, and for a moment, Dalazar saw the flicker of that ancient curse within his ancestor.
"Just as Fulgora attempted to swallow the soul stones and complete its ascension, the Beryl Sun's energy, too great to be held together by ambition alone, began to falter. Though ambition was born of chaos, it could not claim total dominion over a being as ancient as Zincara, who had been single-handedly holding back Aphosis since far beyond Fulgora's creation. Newly invigorated and restored by the merging, Zincara's core purpose—Order—was too strong to be fully erased or controlled."
The Beryl Sun in the memory-river began to fracture, leaking emerald light. "Before the Djynn of Ambition lost all it had worked for, it made one last act. It transformed the mass of the soul stones into rings, vowing to return for them one day. Tero, now mortal once more but forever changed, was given the Ring of Power—Fulgora's final gift to the man who helped its aims. The other rings, Tero was instructed to give to two others he knew would safeguard them. He entrusted them to the two other strongest Shinobi clans of the time: the Owaki and the Yaarou. It was then that the Three Great Shiuobi families arose."
A new figure coalesced in the emerald memory-stream, a man cloaked in shadow, his eyes burning with an inner fire. "The name of this Shinobi is Tero Denkou-Shi, the true founder of all Denkou-Shi." The name hung in the air, a name so significant yet none in his kingdom had heard it.
"With the influence of the Djynn and its cosmic guidance, Tero's mystic abilities became so significant that he became a near peerless master of Ephermal Arts, possessing powerful techniques capable of shifting the tide of battle in his favor. His legend began to rise, and many shinobi came to follow him as he shared the knowledge of the Ephermal Arts. They called him the 'Mystic One.' Eventually, his prowess made an impression on Aphosis, who saw in Tero's ambition a perfect tool. The Nether Serpent invited him to become the first of a new pantheon—the Sun Eaters."
Dalazar leaned forward. This was the mythic schism.
"Tero served the Black Sun's aims, disguising himself as its most loyal champion, claiming many victories in its name. But his true ambition, fueled by Fulgora, was to find the Godstone spoken of in whispers by the Djynn. He planned to harness its power for his own, bringing Order itself under his control and all of Edo under his dogma. He nearly succeeded, eventually managing to get his hands on the stone. Nevertheless, this was all according to Aphosis's plan."
Ains smiled, a grim, knowing expression. "The Nether Serpent knew its spawn. Greed and ambition were its domain, after all. For Aphosis, its power was still incomplete, and Fulgora was the final piece of the puzzle. By absorbing its ambitious child, it would possess a power sufficient to digest the Godstone, becoming a perfect being, an Embodiment of both Order and Chaos. A true god."
The scene in the river intensified. Tero stood before a pulsating crystal, the Godstone, his hands reaching for it. As he tried to absorb its power, he found himself unable to do so. A vortex of darkness erupted from the sky—Aphosis, descending to claim its prize. "Before he and the stone could be devoured," Ains narrated, his voice tight with tension, "Tero, using the last of his strength and Fulgora's desperate power, managed to crack the Godstone."
A blinding light erupted from the memory-stream, forcing Dalazar to shield his eyes. "The crack freed Zincara and the rest of the Zen Pantheon from their ancient prison. Zincara and her brood waged a fierce battle against Aphosis, but it was hopeless. The power of the demon had grown far beyond them, having had a thousand years of singular access to mortal reverence. Yet, all was not lost. Zincara took a page from Aphosis's book and sought to merge its form with its other spawn."
Ains’s voice was devoid of judgment, stating cosmic fact. "Zincara, with her dominion over Order, compelled the other Djynn to join her, enthralling them against their wills. Like its counterpart, Zincara was not adherent to the notions of 'Good' or 'Evil.' Light can scathe, and darkness can soothe. Its sole purpose was its eternal cause: to quell the flames of chaos created by Aphosis, and it would do whatever was needed to achieve this aim."
"Each Djynn gave itself to Zincara, including Fulgora, the Djynn of Ambition still residing within Tero. They merged with the serpent of Light and Order, becoming the first Beryl Sun. However, not all went precisely as Zincara had hoped. Fulgora's will, bonded with Tero's indomitable ambition, had grown far too strong. Their combined will overrode that of the others, becoming the ruling personality of the new entity, robbing Zincara of its sentience and treating its ancient power as mere glue to hold the Beryl Sun together."
The image above showed a magnificent, terrifying creature of emerald light, a sun with a mind of ambition. "The fierce titans waged a war that nearly brought Edo to total ruin. With the combined might of the others, this new Fulgora-Sun managed to tear each of the heads from Aphosis and seal them in what it dubbed soul stones, before sealing Aphosis itself in a new Godstone. But not before Aphosis, in its final moments, laid a curse upon the man who had engineered its downfall. His laborious ambition played a part in the rise of the shinobi, and its demise would be born from his lineage. A curse known as Danketsu: eyes that steal the soul of those they gaze upon, and an insatiable thirst for more power."
Ains met Dalazar's eyes, and for a moment, Dalazar saw the flicker of that ancient curse within his ancestor.
"Just as Fulgora attempted to swallow the soul stones and complete its ascension, the Beryl Sun's energy, too great to be held together by ambition alone, began to falter. Though ambition was born of chaos, it could not claim total dominion over a being as ancient as Zincara, who had been single-handedly holding back Aphosis since far beyond Fulgora's creation. Newly invigorated and restored by the merging, Zincara's core purpose—Order—was too strong to be fully erased or controlled."
The Beryl Sun in the memory-river began to fracture, leaking emerald light. "Before the Djynn of Ambition lost all it had worked for, it made one last act. It transformed the mass of the soul stones into rings, vowing to return for them one day. Tero, now mortal once more but forever changed, was given the Ring of Power—Fulgora's final gift to the man who helped its aims. The other rings, Tero was instructed to give to two others he knew would safeguard them. He entrusted them to the two other strongest Shinobi clans of the time: the Owaki and the Yaarou. It was then that the Three Great Shiuobi families arose."
The team