The_Universe
First Post
The world goes dark for Archonus Arendorr for but a moment, a blinding pain in his head suddenly subsiding. His eyes refocus, and no longer does he stand in the Throne Room at Caer Albion.
Yet, this place is not altogether unfamiliar. He stands on a lonely dock, jutting out over the crashing sea, thousands of feet above the waves. Oceanus.
The draconid ships are gone, but so too are the ships of man and elf that once hung here. He squints, and for a moment he can almost imagine he sees their wreckage piled below the surface of the harbor....a thousand ships, and millions of men, their skeletons still reaching toward the surface.
He blinks, and the image is gone. The sea is calm, but he remains on the dock. There is no activity, here. This is a dead place - he can feel it in his bones. He should be dead, as well.
No, that's not right. He lives. Someone else is dead...someone close to him.
He turns away from the sea, trying to put the oddly empty harbor from his mind. The city burns behind him, plumes of smoke and dust rising like black clouds from the roaring flames. The draconids are gone, but so are the people. The city of Forsaken Elves is merely a forsaken city, now.
This seems somehow familiar. This has happened before.
A voice echoes in his ears, his mind. The voice is his own. The voice is another's. "The world burns like this. A battle was won, but a war was lost - all based on a single utterence. On another, the same battle was lost, but this war was won."
The voice, the familiar voice, is coming from behind him. He's sure of it. His eyes narrow, his gloved hands tighten on the hilts of his swords. Loss sings in his grip, begging to be released, to be freed from its prison.
A grim smile crosses his face. He will oblige the blade.
Silver steel flashes in the firelight as he turns, the blade cutting a flat arc ahead of his turn. This battle will be over before it begins.
A crash. A ring of razored bells. Another blade has stopped his own, delicate runes cut into the surface of the ancient broad blade, glowing blue in defiance of the fire light. A falcon, forged in gold reaches skyward, its upswept wings forming a crosspiece for the blade. Mansblade.
His own face looks back at him. His lips curl in rage. Archonus Bluestar!
The mirror image holds the broadsword against Loss, but Archonus Arendorr can see his muscles straining. He pushes harder, pouring his anger through his arms to his doppelganger's blade. Yet, as his anger fills him, he sees only sadness on the face of his erstwhile twin.
He blocks the firelight from reaching his opponent's face, but for a moment, he could swear that tears cross the grim features of the man before him.
"This," his twin grunts through gritted teeth, "is my world. I created yours."
Yet, this place is not altogether unfamiliar. He stands on a lonely dock, jutting out over the crashing sea, thousands of feet above the waves. Oceanus.
The draconid ships are gone, but so too are the ships of man and elf that once hung here. He squints, and for a moment he can almost imagine he sees their wreckage piled below the surface of the harbor....a thousand ships, and millions of men, their skeletons still reaching toward the surface.
He blinks, and the image is gone. The sea is calm, but he remains on the dock. There is no activity, here. This is a dead place - he can feel it in his bones. He should be dead, as well.
No, that's not right. He lives. Someone else is dead...someone close to him.
He turns away from the sea, trying to put the oddly empty harbor from his mind. The city burns behind him, plumes of smoke and dust rising like black clouds from the roaring flames. The draconids are gone, but so are the people. The city of Forsaken Elves is merely a forsaken city, now.
This seems somehow familiar. This has happened before.
A voice echoes in his ears, his mind. The voice is his own. The voice is another's. "The world burns like this. A battle was won, but a war was lost - all based on a single utterence. On another, the same battle was lost, but this war was won."
The voice, the familiar voice, is coming from behind him. He's sure of it. His eyes narrow, his gloved hands tighten on the hilts of his swords. Loss sings in his grip, begging to be released, to be freed from its prison.
A grim smile crosses his face. He will oblige the blade.
Silver steel flashes in the firelight as he turns, the blade cutting a flat arc ahead of his turn. This battle will be over before it begins.
A crash. A ring of razored bells. Another blade has stopped his own, delicate runes cut into the surface of the ancient broad blade, glowing blue in defiance of the fire light. A falcon, forged in gold reaches skyward, its upswept wings forming a crosspiece for the blade. Mansblade.
His own face looks back at him. His lips curl in rage. Archonus Bluestar!
The mirror image holds the broadsword against Loss, but Archonus Arendorr can see his muscles straining. He pushes harder, pouring his anger through his arms to his doppelganger's blade. Yet, as his anger fills him, he sees only sadness on the face of his erstwhile twin.
He blocks the firelight from reaching his opponent's face, but for a moment, he could swear that tears cross the grim features of the man before him.
"This," his twin grunts through gritted teeth, "is my world. I created yours."
