Cyrik
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- Posted: Sun, 20 Jul 2014 22:18:30 +0000
Savic the Blue Blade
The Battle of Wretched Perdition was fought in the lowest circle of hell, Tartarus, on icy planes between the forces of the Fallen One and the Bringer of Light. Satan roared with bestial fury, driving his mighty pitch fork into the ground so that the spiked tip sent a spider weave of cracks to ripple through the surface of the frozen lake. Lucifer was collected and reserved as ever, radiating a white glow which shielded his ranks of warriors from view. He seemed to carry no weapon and acted as the antithesis of Satan. One was raging and inhuman, the other was calm. One was dark, the other light. These differences brought these deities together as enemies in the proverbial conflict of Light versus Shadow, fighting for a purpose no more significant then superiority. Satan was the undisputed king of this Underworld. Lucifer showed up in an attempt to usurp Satan's throne. Just because he felt he can. Hell's politics were often pointless pissing contests between god-like figures with the power to rend the Earthly planes asunder. They fought for every reason from the insatiable desire for Death and Destruction, like the Battle of Abaddon versus the Hellmaw, to such frivalities akin to stepping on a stranger's tennis shoe. Pointlessly beautiful bloodshed. Violence for violences sake. Because that's how us Satanists do.
From across the frigid field of battle, Lucifer raised a fist in the air which sounded a roar from his Legions which shook the very foundation of his opposition's will, causing Hell Demons and their masters to fidget slightly under the bloodthirsty cacophony. Satan stepped back for a second, lifting his barbed fork before jutting forward like a flash, stomping his boot in the ice and unleashing a sound as equally threatening as the whole of Lucifer's guard, a sound so soul shatteringly piercing that half of Lucifer's contingent fled immediately upon their ears being assailed by it's strength. Despite Lucifer's protests and murderous remedies for mutiny, they fled in droves. With only about half of his initial force, Lucifer produced a small metallic cylinder from the inside of his white vest and lifted it into the air. Such a magnificent light emitted from the cylinder in the form of a long whip which coiled in its heavenly glow as it unfurled down from it's height with the gleaming tip resting upon the chilled land, slowing melting the lake of Tartarus as it rested.
There was a definite problem while attempting to defend against a weapon of a malleable vacillating nature. The Rider's effective range for attacking was incomprehensible for Whitechapel seeing as how the globular weaponry which The Rider wielded was nigh infinite. Named Confortare and Mors for the most sacred principles to The Rider while on the battlefield, they were among the most powerful physical weapons possessed by the Underworld in it's fight against man and heaven. The Rider wasn't one for subterfuge, being a battle tank who saw only a frontal assault and honorable combat as battlefield law but employing a superior strategy was also a part of being a great general of War. He Was War, a modern God of Battle for a modern age. Out with Odin and Ares and in with War, the apocalypse rider. Underneath the amazing suit of armor, as close to the Rider as his pounding heart and the Hellfire of his Horse's mane, his chest swelled at the thought of the means with which he would employ his mighty forces. It was a moment when a simple, albeit risky, battle strategy would work to such great effect that it had the potential to put a sudden and abrupt end to this fight. The Rider needed to manipulate his opponent with such a fantastic strategy that there was no possibility for failure. The Rider, would not lose at war and so he decided to go with a textbook move of Gehenna's Institution and roared forth with a furiousness which equalled the roar of the winds from the clouds overhead. "Odio Satanus!"
Surprisingly, it was Lucifer who made the first move. He motioned and held a few quick conversations with his soldiers whom exchanged words in Seraph accompanied by shoot gestures with the glowing whip to get his point across. His men pounded his chest with a gloved fist before Lucifer turned back to his opposition and set himself in motion in a sprint which turned the lean form of the deitie into a glistening streak which stained the dismal environment with it's glory. Satan roared again, the barbed tips of his trident piercing the ice with ease, the flames of Satan's rage boiling the ice in almost an instant before he and his entire force sprinted forth to meet the long Wielder of Light. It seemed like Lucifer had no chance of surviving the waves of opposition which he was facing, but Lucifer was a cunning foe and would have rushed into the sheer destructive force of hell without a plan so as Satan and his congregation neared him, Lucifer dropped to a knee and held the cylinder against his side with the light projecting to his back. The glow instantly flattened into a large round shield which covered his entire body. Satan raised his pitchfork for a fatal blow but was arrested as pain shot through his entire form. First his shoulder, then his hip and stomach. Arrows were pinioning him to his position like hefty iron chains, slamming into and through his muscular anatomy to the song of pained growls and breathing. Behind him arose a chorus of murder as his men were cut down around him by the multitude of Oaken and Silver arrows being fired by Lucifer's flanks. The arrows harmlessly bounced off of Lucifer's light shield leaving him unscathed during this entire battle. When the last arrow struck and Satan's last soldier fell upon their death bed, Lucifer rose and stood over Satan like a master over his slave. This brilliant strategy would forever be known as Satan's Hate.
Whitechapel had backed off enough to survive the initial sword swing and had gained himself a slight distance. This gave the false impression of sanctuary to the larger combatant who seemed to be gathering himself for another assault, as judging by the body language that the Rider was seeing. The Wolf hunched and dig his claws into the earth before darting forward at a heightened speed. Logically speaking, Whitechapel showed himself as an inferior combatant at close range against the Mortal Paul so the frontal charge he was currently exhibiting against the Rider and his infinite means of assaulting from a melee range would be a suicide run so The Rider believed it to be a feint. But which way would the Wolf feign towards. To the Wolf's left awaited two legs clad with steel like hooves which could strike with enough force to shatter bricks. To the Wolf's right awaited the flamethrower Maw of the massive horse and the full attention of The Rider with both Confortare and Mors and the cosmic powers which they employed. The orbs of warfare had receeded to their resting shapes of undulating spheres. Then the moment happened and the Wolf broke to his right which played perfectly into the Rider's hands.
He was prepared, himself and his transport moved in a perfect synchronization in a unified effort to take the Wolf out. The Horse seethed, Snorting out long streams of Hellfire from his nostrils upon the creation of it's forward movement. The Horse began in a gallop at the first hint of lateral movement from Whitechapel, as the movement was expected based on his previous logical deductions so he was able to begin the forward motion almost instantly upon a flicker of movement to the left or right. Since he need only move forward without turning of any kind, since Wolfie broke towards the direction the Horse and Rider were facing, it was a motion whose rapidity could match that of his foe which placed a emblazoned road block directly in Whitechapel's path which would create such a stymied flow of movement that it should impede the sprint of his adversary. To continue in his attempt to stop the locomotive processes of Whitechapel, The Rider's left hand would switch over to his right side at the point when his trajectory would bring him within striking distance to Whitechapel. From his left hand shot forth a geyser of liquified metal, moving in a heavy stream outwards from it's base while flowering at it's extreme end and blossoming into a cylindrical plate with a diameter of roughly two yards. The cylindrical properties of the plate erratically subsided in such a sporadic fashion that it created a jagged face for the plate. Metal dipping into serrated points in a undulating pattern that made spikes seem to rapidly ascend and descend giving a pulsating quality to the shield which staunched Whitechapel's path. As this defense was forming along the right side of the symbiotic creature of War, his right hand was turning so that the globule wielding palm was facing the torrential power of the stormy heavens. A thin line of the liquid metal shot forth to create a nearly imperceptible thread which stretched upwards from the symmetrical line of The Rider's anatomy in a veiled effort of deterring Whitechapel's avoiding conflict with the Rider by ascension. But this filament of razor sharp wire was merely the first of many contraptions designed to keep Whitechapel at bay. From the singular strand came a multitude of different threads of an identical nature, jutting from the first and curling through the air to give and rainbow haze to the whole area as the faint sunlight breaking it's way through the clouds gleamed from the iridescent sheen giving off by the metal. So stretching around the pulsating spikes of the shielded deterrent was a weave work of spiderweb like razor thread capable of slicing through human flesh under the force of it's own momentum which stretched for a radius of ten feet from the primary thread which rose before the Rider's face in an intricate pattern which includes variations of symbols from various languages and religions. Like an Ann detest painting Whitechapel's defeat did the Rider set such defenses with the strokes of his initiative and his brilliant strategic mind.
The advantage for Whitechapel is that the sensory organs of his current form were probably well acute enough to see each and every thread which created this deadly tapestry which was woven into the fabric of this universe, stabilized stoic and deadly in the air with enough strength to absorb the impact Whitechapel would make if he struck it while being too sharpened to be forcefully moved by a bodily effort without incurring significant damage and loss of appendages. But given the fact that the lace work of threads encompassed such a large area that there were several gaps within it which could allow the passage of a bodily form with a discipline and a flexibility which was only slightly above average. So the possibility that Whitechapel could find ingress through the weave was solid but was this a detriment to this particular defense? Were these holes intentionally placed by The Rider as a means to funnel Whitechapel to a certain point in space? Would his best tactic be to stop and stand his ground in a contest of melee against the Horse and Rider? These were the decisions which Whitechapel would have to carefully consider in the fraction of a second between the placement of the impediments and the moment were Whitechapel would crash into them and be lacerated beyond recognition. One thing which held The Rider in a safe disposition was that he was sure the Wolf would be ill-prepared to cast any of his spells as he was putting his energy into moving himself and seemed to have been content to charge with a rather reckless abandon, seemingly hoping to rend with fang and claw. Thinning the ranks, seemed to be the objective of this charge, as proven by Whitechapel's agile turn upon approaching the Rider which inferred that he wasn't the Wolf's target. The infantry was too far back to yet be a threat so Whitechapel was probably heading towards the Archers and mages before being dissuaded from advancing even if only temporarily.
Of course, The Rider was only a single portion of the machinery of warfare and as he bellowed the order earlier, Odio Satanus, the soldiers began their prescribed movements with the systematic perfection of well trained professional soldiers. The infantry broke their sprint and shifted in four battalions complete with ten shielded swordsman and a variety of attack weapons. They formed two lines between each group of archers, the forward line had the infantry carrying their impressive tower shields with an attacker with a two handed weapon filed in between two of the shielded. This formed a solid line of defense to protect the Archers from any potential attacks from the Wolf. The Mages came equipped with their own form of defense and immediately formed a circle around a singular mage, and completed the task almost instantly upon the completion of their voiced command. The circular band of spell casters began to emanate a purplish glow as their collective energies collected and traveled through each of their bodies. With the superior numbers of people supplying the energy, they were capable of incredible feats of Sorcery much faster then a singular caster so after very few seconds, the center figure of this circle was bounding with devastating energy and ready to launch a large mystical attack at the Wolf if it advanced any further. Both Mage groups stood ready with such spells before The Rider was even able to stage his own defense. The last leg of Odio Satanus was the most important and it involved a technique using angles which allowed one Archer to place multiple arrows in a singular space at a singular time. The archers, upon the order, drew their bows back and bent backwards from the waist to send an arrow arching high into the air. Then they leaned forward slightly and completed the action again. This process completed five more times until the Archer sent an arrow in a parallel line to the earth which meant the forty five archers were able to blanket an extremely large section of space with a uniform packet of deadly Hellfire arrows.
Fractions of a second after the weave work of death was created, giving just enough time for Whitechapel to decide his course of action by either passing through the weave work or stopping his forward motion in an attempt to rethink his next step during a better situation to mark his many considerations, the arrows would strike. Dark red were the flames, laced with an alabaster filament and outline which perfectly mirrored the mane, tail and nostril flames of the War Horse, shone barely sooner then the arrow's arrivals. If Whitechapel had decided to stop his progression then he may be lucky enough to be shielded by the expanse of the Rider and Horse, who's burning armor wouldn't crumple under the massive forces of the arrow strikes. They'd tink loudly before deflecting off of the many curves and sparks of the plates which is why he felt safe employing this strategy. But if any of the arrows in the thirty feet by fifteen feet block were to hit the unarmored Wolf, the force of the weighted arrow would likely knock the creature off of his feet and slowly burn his flesh with Hellfire. The element of Hellfire was very similar to flame of the Mortal realm, although it generally burned hotter and gave off less luminescence then fire of Man's existence but dealt extra damage to a creature of a Lawful or Good alignment. Given the fact that Whitechapel explained his Wolf form was one of Justice and Law, he would probably receive extra damage of a basic unholy nature. Lastly, if Whitechapel decided to pass through the filament of razor threads, he would be guaranteed to receive at least two arrows some where in his body because of his surface area coupled with the specifically designed tactic which allowed the placement of those certain holes for this reason and the concentration of arrows pelting that area.
