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Laid to Rest
Topic Started: Jun 30 2009, 05:49 AM (469 Views)
Vaelyis
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Brothers to the End
The rage of war. The adrenaline to pulse the heart and body and to strain the wings to muster the breath of fire, defeating the enemy. Scorch the enemies in dwindling battles against all odds. Stare into the abyss, watching the gallows envelope you. The memories of lost times. The poisonous words of denial, regret, death, blood, and most of all: loss. Losing a friend or someone close has its advantages: the one pushes harder to massacre the enemy until battle courses over and topples the great warrior, abandoning him only to the him bulking for more or dead on the battle field.

It was a war. A war against Acolyte and Syneath. A plague to wash over and cripple the many survivors and Victorians. The virus of Decay withering them down, crippling them. Acidic green and yellow acids spewing out of their mouths, the virus renting wounds into their flesh, the acidic venom oozing through the wounds. Their bodies weaken, bones visible through the flesh, their eyes glowing with colors of a acidic-yellow and green. The plague was only at its wake. Assyria doomed at all angles, corner by the threat and disease. The saviors battling against the plagues of decay. There is no where to hide. No where to run. No way out.

Years passed since the first war of Assyria on planet Nyrvyria. A war known as the Rachen or so to say Fallen Decay. The rise of Acolytes and the fallen of Syneath. Fighting over the bases of living, the Syneath in Acolyte eyes were an abomination, feckless species and countless vermins of no lives. They were the same in the Syneath eyes against the Acolytes. The Vydyr and Seethen didn't have it as rough as their dragons did. Dragons of Assyria were either rouges or the dark defenders. Can't be both. Acolytes were the decaying breed, the Syneath to be known of the dark defenders. The skeletal or scaly dragons of rapine, slaughter, blood, and fear. Decay, poison, betrayal, and demise was all game and play of the Acolyte, though Syneath do play well.

A war between both races to prove whom is worthy. A battle against two warlords of both breeds: Synile Annibal and Syiether. The Stratton (a Empire-based army) enforced to be the black-hand of the Acolytes as the Syneath have breeds and alliances of their own, unknown to the infuriating species. The Acolyte give the dragons a bad name. They annihilated any species inferior to their eyes, including demons, humans or any other species they delve for. They will go for any and nigh can they kill them to save their lives and to be plagued by their own decay. The Acolytes were indestructible, a virus taking over planets. They became dead, no life visible or detected, just what the Acolyte race desired. What they wish to please for. You can't get rid of the infection once it hits, but spreads and then wipes everything out—vegetation, species, organisms, everything... until the entire planet is dead and nothing is able to live on it's atmosphere or surface.


Numerous accounts of death for the Syneath pile up each day as Acolyte topple over them, gaining the mantle in the battle. Syneath deform into the plaguing breed. Those who were friends are now the enemies; those who stood by your side now stand against you, grabbing a hold of your neck, infecting them with the virus to enslave them to the Decay's superior demand. The death count is piling up and seconds arguing are seconds lost.

Lost in the transaction, a dark shadow soared over the greenish-black land, waters filled with the infection, trees nothing but dead, the skies clouded in a dark haze of black and gray with little forest green tints, no sun or moon visible. Everything was dying and Assyria used to be vivid and full of life. Now everything is either infected or dead. Even the Syneath breed are showing both effects.

Flaring its wings, the beast soared over the plague lands, roaring above its limits, shattering the sound barrier without wasting a single breath. Twisting its body, it encountered the vermin breed of betrayal and humiliation. The Acolyte gave a loud shriek, the black leathery skin shimmering from the oozing virus covering its flesh, the bones white like perils, wires winding and binding the body, wrapping to the white-boned tail of spikes or rigid overlapping scale-like bones. The Syneath carried its body through the sky, ascending after the Acolyte.

Narrowing its eyes, the two species collided, bodies toppling and hurling, grappling one another. Enslaved to the virus, the Acolyte did what the demanding plague ordered: infect the Syneath. The Syneath refused, flaring its wings with a torrent of roaring flame, scorching its flesh. Burnt and dead flesh filled the air, as well as the stench of rotten flesh, corpses, and metallic blood. The Syneath and Acolyte battled, snapping jaws, scratching large rents in their hides, breaking the membranes or snapping the wings, and breaking bones. But none yielded or seized, but continued with the brutal fight.

The Syneath was more than different that the rest known to Assyrian dragons and races. The body was all flesh and scale. There was hide, skin and muscle over the bones. Organs filled inside the body, with an actual heart, the Valyüre orb resting beneath the ribs and heart. The scales shimmered each and every independent platelet, details vivid with wide colors and shimmering spectacles of reflecting and bouncing light. Light waved over the scales, rippling with life and color. The spikes along the spine drew up off the back and spine, connecting with the scales and spine itself, reaching high off the back and neck, all the way down off the hips, to line with the tail, ending with a club-like tail or a hammer of war. The tail was miraculous. Coiling with magma-like chemicals, scales floated above the streaming liquid, some of the scales detaching off each other, disconnecting—like a bridge.

The scales glinted colors of a dark and deep midnight-black, rippling lights shading colors of amethyst and deep indigo-blue. The scales glorified the beats true hide and body, the chest covered with protection of strong, well-built, tough scales, the under-belly and head as well. Smaller spikes lined down the middle of its chest and down through the under-belly, to the underside of the tail, getting smaller as it reaches a foot away from the beginning of the clubbed war-hammer tip of the tail. Muscles well built into the body of the beast, helping the creature maneuver through the skies, battle amongst the ground and give powerful blows to the chests, heads, body, ribs and all of its opponent. The head was well shaped, two canine teeth on the lower jaw larger than the rest, protruding above the muzzle only a fraction of an inch, as the rest were either covered and hidden by the flap of skin or protruding out from the flap.

Bristling immensely of colors of vibrant blues, black and deep shaded amethyst, the dragon soared with easy and skillful balance, staying aloft above the land and in the sky, eyes locked on its impending target. The eyes were the magnificent part of the flying creature. Orbs of withering lights swam in the dark abyss of the eyes, like the eyes themselves were water. Craving the passion it desires, crimson-vermilion shades enveloped the eyes with hues of wine-red orbs, balancing out the bloody colors of pure fresh sanguine, prepared with the death covered scaly body of the dragon. The claws were well curved and thick, built to shatter armor and pierce flesh. The dragon itself held little armor upon its body, with a rider on the spine resting on a saddle, like the hierarchy of the planet. And truly, it was. King of Assyria, leader of the Seethen: Marcus Razen Jericho Lecter and his dragon, creator and master mind Syneath, Synile Annibal, the desecrator, Artist of War, and blood-lust craving beast of massacre.

Synile cracked her jaws open, releasing a shattering roar, boarded with a screech of demise and scheme. Flaring her wings as the membranes attached to the hide, the ends connection to the base of her hips, extending past, only to end a foot from the hips onto the tail base. Twisting her body 360° in the sky, her body and claws met with the competing Acolyte. Four fingers on her front paws with a small fore-finger at the sides, and three on her hing paws, with larger fore-fingers, claws extending to nearly seven-eight inches in length, only when settled to curve up against the leg when landed, but outstretched when in flight.

Avoiding the spurting jets of acid the Acolyte thrust from two pockets behind its skin holding the upper and lower jaw. Synile delved underneath the Acolyte, smashing her own weight and body into the underbelly of the infuriating dragon, knocking the wind out of its body. The Acolyte shrieked in pain, wings loosing mobility, struggling to stay aloft in the sky. Climbing above the soon paralyzed dragon, Synile twisted her body into a half-circle, her head directly above the Acolyte's. One strike to the base of the head could immobilize the dragon and ruin its chance to kill the Syneath creator. A smile flickered in her eyes, knowing this was all going to be pleasure to her utmost desire. Snapping both wings against her flanks, she mustered her body through the air, expanding both jaws, and locked them over the base of the head.

The Acolyte struggled against Synile's iron grip, but it was futile efforts to redeem free from her grip. Flaring both wings, Synile clamped down, sealing her opened throat so the Decay virus couldn't seep into her own body. Spurting chemicals into her jaws to kill off the virus, Synile wrenched her head, snapping the spine, and tearing the hide off the neck, ripping open a large rent in the neck and head. Dead was imminent. Releasing her kill, Synile watched as the Acolyte's body hurled through the sky, plummeting to the ground, motionless, its body sparking with blood pooling from the gashes and deep flesh wounds.

Snorting, flaring her nostrils, Synile expanded her jaws to their full length, releasing a earth-bound shattering roar, surpassing the sound barrier and being carried throughout the entire planet as a war cry and warning. Spikes fringed in a threatening sign, as well as her flared wings, the membranes straining against the wing fingers. Her rider sat upon the saddle resting on the spine, smiling with pleasure as he held Vor'roc in clamped hands. "Well done!" He laughed manically, a vile smile brewing the edges of his lips.
Slaughter well to be payed in lives and not debt. They owe too much to even allow to live and wait, let alone their suffering accompanying me with pleasurable and enticing desire.
"And they wonder where I get my insanity from?"
Not me, child.
"It's every bit of you."
I rubbed off on you is all.
"That's what they all say."
Enough now, no more games. We have a war to battle for and the Syneath breed are just about extinct. They are now the enemies unless I can end this war and savor their lives. Our friends are no longer alliances, but rivalries. We must take them out. We must defend our home. Defend the home of the Syneath. Acolyte shall not enter and intrude. They will suffer! Marcus smiled, his eyes lighting up as hers, mimicking her very eye color. Synile roared once more, Syneath rising from their burrows and hiding places, reborn and alive. Swarming the skies with pounding wing-beats and sparkling bones and scales, Synile roared once more in honor. Flaring her wings, two symbols etched on one wing each, translucent with a dazzling turquoise-blue color. One meaning blood and the other meaning fear. She enthused them and worked with them, as death's symbol rested on her chest with the sparkling and dazzling scales on her body.

The cries, screeches, shrieks and roars of the mass army above her that Synile had summoned, they mustered through the air, colliding and crashing into near by Acolytes and their riders, taking them out with jaws, claws, and their own bodies. The skeletal Syneath had nothing to worry about, it was the scaled Syneath she had to worry for. Snarling, the flap rising over the teeth in a feral snarl and vile bare, Synile roared in attack, delving through the sky, releasing a torrent of molten flame across the lands, burning helpless Acolytes who plummeted from the skies or was dying from lethal wounds, riders as well and those who helped their dragons. Their screams filled her eyes. They were melodies to her ears and pleasure to the eyes. Terminating the flame, Synile sailed over the land, ascending higher into the sky, gaining above all else, into higher altitudes. The symbols flared vibrant colors, glimmering with delight. Climbing above the mass swarm of Acolyte and Syneath, Synile's eyes darted all over the fighting races, pleased by her work. This is soon to become the worst war in Syneath and Assyrian history. We will be remember and so shall this day. The Day of Decay and Upheval.

Her voice echoed through the atmosphere, hitting the minds of all, breaking the conscience and severing all connections. Floating her words across the lands, Synile released another shattering roar, only this time, this was one of warning and threat. Syneath Synile has changed more than in appearance, but not in mood for she has nothing more than to cover her scales in her own enemies blood. This is a day of slaughter, of blood shed, massacre, fear, and glory. A day of the Syneath. And death to the Acolyte.

But, nothing ever goes according to plan.

Everyone they knew, gone, taken, or rising from hiding. A battle or sorority and power, a battle for survival. Survival was now taking the mantle. Fate was extinct here.

Do you spot anyone of interest? Anyone we know? Synile asked, her voice edging with concern and satisfaction.
"None that I know of. I can see Baird and Reaver so far."
What about Dexter and Vestage?
"No, but I can feel them. Aren't they of the opposing? The enemy? We never consort with the enemy."
He's your son and nothing have the done in harm against us. We can use them.
"Dexter and Vestage aren't pawns or toys for our plot. We're not using them as weapons."
Dammit child, you don't see nothing, do you?
"You are going to get my son killed if we do that. I am not allowing it."
So shall you not, but you can't decide for them! A vile, grim smile peeked on her face, curving the edges of her lips.
"You wouldn't?"
I will.
"I will never forgive you if you do it. Never. You will be a traitor and a betrayer if you do. I will make you suffer if you place them in harm's way. No, I won't allow it, even if I have to die or you. I am not allowing my son to become the target of it all." Marcus hissed, knowing Synile wasn't listening. "Synile?" Marcus screamed with a snarl. Synile roared, which converted into a screech, the tune increasing as she held it.

Marcus covered his eyes as her screech almost shattered his ear drums. None shall defy me, not even you! Fear gripped him as Synile had changed more than he knew and for sure she would easily take it out on him if she wanted to. Synile's mind only focused on one thing and if she wanted it, she will get it and by all means, she will have it. Her mind worked as one and only one, deprived from everything else. Marcus was always oblivious to it, and from so long of ignoring, he now knew that as volatile as she was, it just became more worse by the second. And Synile would kill him just to get past what she desired.


Below them, the enemy soared and screeched, clashing with the Syneath and their riders or just Syneath themselves, their riders dead or corrupt or wounded, growing morbid and soon to loose all thought and be inflicted by the Acolyte's infection or some to enraged, attacking their own kind, killing them off, making it easier for the Acolytes. Synile hissed, knowing it would happen, but not so soon. The Syneath were growing corrupt and hostile, feral and more volatile than what they used to be. "They haven't fought in so long they missed the feeling of slaughter so much they can't tell the difference between enemy and ally."
That's what happens to us when we cannot complete the urge of our luster. For being detained and hiding for too long, we loose the knowledge of knowing who is who or telling which apart from the rest.
"Can you fix it?"
No, only they can. Marcus sighed, knowing her words were true. It was up to them and words could only help by a fraction. The rest was up to them. Synile watched from above, deciding each ones death and demise, her eyes flickering on and off, her mood changing every second. Marcus knew this was dangerous: riding upon the back of a volatile and morbid dragon, not knowing when she would attack and turn on him. He was waiting for it, but it came unexpectedly. As she told him: Expect the unexpected. It came to fast for him and ran him over. Marcus was incapable of stabilizing his own dragon let alone stopping her from doing the things that will ruin their chances of ever winning this war.

It was like Chess: you have to strategically move your pieces to capture the king. In this case, they were the pawns of the game and this war was a big chess board. Now, time to out smart the wise. This was Foul Play, Fair Play doesn't exist in this game of survival.
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MatterIntoTheVoid
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Suicide Missionary
Glimmering, dark, bloody scales... Blood dripped from the beats jaws, claws etched into the ground, muscles clutching in fear and pain, every movement was pain, every breath was another pain, another wrenching break against the simple barreir laid down. Her eyes darted in fear and hate. Her tail lay still, the spikes lieing down along her tail. She... whimpered. She feared for him, where was he? No, they can't do this... She cried out in agony... Where was James?!
'They stole him from me.. they had to of... no! I need him! I can't live without him, even if they tore us apart, I wouldn't dare take breath! No! James!'

How had it come down to this? How had they taken him from her? It was impossible, she had made sure of it, that he was never in danger of them... The Vlykyn had taken him away... Somehow, someone had let slip something, a loophole... It had been perfect... now.. no, she didn't know if James was alive or dead... Niani was no help, holding her dark secret in that black pit of a heart, she knew she had to... She had been there when they had done this... Had they done it to her too?

'Oh please...James.. answer me.... Don't leave me....Come to me...'
Futile efforts.


It was a very well remebered thing, what had happened, but whether he was alive or not, that depended on your own thoughts. And Satherone could not imagine living without him, no, she was still trying against the chains... Against the Vlykyn who had devised a plan against her, to take out her own mantle and kill her? They wouldn't chance another of Rakentus' last actions..No. They would not imprison..only kill. Was the same done unto James? Satherone did not feel the thread that held them break, it was there.. But it hurt to hold on to it. Was He alive? Was Satherone being played fool? Was he dead? Was the words of death breaking her and reaching and grasping her heart trying to rip it out?

It wsa simple: kill...or be killed yourself... Satherone found only one thing.. A light at the end.. James was hers... She would have him back... Let him come home.. to her. Scream her heart out, stand and fight.. Break these chains, destroy everything in her way to get him.. To bring him home.. To bring her little Monster home.

She snarled, her jaws snapped shut, and despite the ahcing pain her eyes opened and a growl ruptured her throat. Chains pinned her down, her own strength depleted from it. She hissed a smile brewed on her face and jaws. She snapped her jaws again and screamed horridly. Her tail lashed, shattering chain and metal, splintering wood. She forced herself to stand, fighting pain and her own consceince, fighting the things that told her he was dead... No, he wasn;t dead!

She hissed and was soon standing, scraps of chains fell from her body, she shook them off, her glimmering black, bloody scales bright in the light of the dark moon. She hissed, cracking open her jaws, and unleashed a sound barrier shattering roar. Her tail lashed and the Vlaska, Vlykyn riders, tried to avoid her. Her mind difussed, showing the past as now, seeing them before her cower... As the abylocts and their riders had...

She hissed, she felt their fear and hate their sudden urge to flee..She wouldn't let it.. Her scales glew brillant red, vermilon crimson red. She snarled and snapped her jaws shut, arching her neck, the flesh decaying from her body as the scales burned, her eyes were last... The slit pupil devoured by the plague, the iris seeming to evaporate in its own sucket, mists rising from her bones and eyes, her nostrils. Her tail lashing, the spikes raised and arched defeantly against the pain. She growled and hissed, flesh clinging to her bones, a smile in her hollow eyes of death...

She luanched into the air, her wings thundering at her sides and picking her up into the air. she hissed, snarling and grunting, she cracked her jaws open, and for the first time in along time.. she snapped in two and let out her deadly flame, the scream that followed, her horrid lullabye of death and pain... The brillant flames, burning, black and blood red, deathly, lethal. She was breaking, the voices telling her things she didn't want to hear, she felt him, felt his soul and mind, he couldn't be dead... No, he couldn't be.. and if he was alive...
He was in too much pain.

Yes, that was it. She decided this much, unable to coopaerate with him as dead, he had to be alive.. just in too much pain. Yes, that was it. She let it come to her, that idea, consumed it inher deathly mind, letting it consume and ravage her, yes, he was just in terrible pain... She hissed, snapping her jaws shut, cutting off her long forgotten fire... Her own wrath wishing to decend on the pityful world around her, she would have him back, claim him home and rise above his tortures, she would release him of his pain...

Come to me.

Her voice rang as she called two who could help, Niani, and the very thing that was darkness and death, the very one who had helped trained her 'little Monster'...
Markus Ludaveg.
----------

Her scream was heard, her plea of help. Niani raised her skeltal head from the ground and snarled, She calls...
Mark looked up, "Who?" He had been listening to the dead speak.. And became interested as one stood above the rest, he knew the voice, but it seemed distant and fading, strange to him, he'd never heard one like it. He was confused, he'd heard the voice, but no voice of the dead from the grave had spoken with so much unclearness... AS if the person was only on the verge of death...
Satherone Valeküre calls us.. She is urgent in this although.. We must go to her.. Niani snarled, shaking her body as she stood, dust falling. Mark stood, climbing into her saddle, he clutched the spike and said, "Then let us go!"

Niani snarled, cracking her jaws open, a roar penatrated, answering Satherone.. They would come and help.. they would save Satherone's 'Little Monster'.
If he was even alive...Anymore.
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