In fact, as Balor recalled, he himself suffered a broken nose as well at Lumbridge, albeit to a pommel, not to a head. Still, the thought amused Balor enough to inspire his reaction, a reaction which triggered a greater infuriation inside of Raphael's heart. The rebel's face scowled as his eyes fixated upon his enemy, beaming a glare most angry.
The end of Balor's laughter would come in a deep exhale, turning to his opponent. He was stayed, arrested by the thought of Raphael's sheer resolve. The courage and heart it must take to continue standing up, no matter how hopeless or bleak the situation may seem. Balor admired it, wondering briefly if he himself could ever hope to muster such determination.
The corners of his lips began to rise, touching his eyes. His face shone with a smile, a sight which Raphael despised for its arrogance. But his biased image was untrue, for its nature was of neither conceit nor mockery. It radiated a subtle warmth...like the feel of brotherly-pride.
"...I'm tempted to believe that it's simply impossible to hold you down," Balor commented, impressed by Raphael's conviction. "I've beaten you to the point of exhaustion, belittled you and your Resistance, slaughtered your people, and single-handedly brought your life to ruin. I've taken everything from you, even your life...yet somehow you still rise."
"That's right, you stole everything to become who you are," his wrathful brother Raphael declared quietly, getting up off of his knees. "...You stopped at nothing until you took it all, so I won't stop until I've taken it all back. Your armour, your sword, your throne, your crown, your titles, your city, your Utopia...
everything...!
"
Balor sighed most mournfully. "Very well. If that is truly your intention, then I'll do everything in my power to protect them." He then raised his fists, getting into a combative stance. "Have at you, my brother."
And so the two brothers dashed forward, their fists raised against each other. They collided once again, certain that an end drew near...
The usurper and the bastard committed further to this fateful duel. Their fists their words, their battle their exhaustive, screaming argument to settle everything. Beyond the brothers, beyond the black steel-clad Loyal Knights in audience, laid the thick, unnerving tumult of war. The courtyard of the Imperial Palace, a place frequently buzzing with politicians and admirers of the Hero King at this time, was now filled to the brim with violence. Its vain, grandiose displays of Solasúian architecture lost from sight, smothered by a veil of mist black as if the shroud of Death himself.
Within the shadowy mist, figures scattered. They were men, women, even fantastical and mythical beasts, shifting through the fog and disturbing the gods who knew nothing of their creator. Their presence realistic and believable, until they were harmed, dissipating within moments. These shadows provided distraction for the rebellion, confounding the gods' minds with their very nature. The split second of their confusion was all that was required, leaving them open for a counterattack.
The crafter, creator, master of these mysterious shadow figures was the one called Daevarro, a dark-robed youth born into the heretical following known as the Cult of Lamia. Aside from these unearthly beings, Daevarro shot forth a volley of spells, sending fireballs and weakness spells into the void he created.
He could still lucidly recollect the wizard he learned from, a stern, but kindhearted scholar with nowhere else to go. Indeed, the world outside of their underground home was unwelcoming to humankind, so there was no choice but to give one's self to the unusual, borderline-inhumane practices of the Cult.
Daevarro was beyond himself with rage, a drastic departure from his usually timid, but kindly self. His deprived face engraved with his rancor as he launched spell after spell, aimed without mercy upon the enemies who tore his family from him, who slew his sister in cold-blood. As he relentlessly discharged spells and shadows, his attention was stolen. The furious sound of footsteps charging at him ruptured the air nearby, alerting Daevarro that he had been discovered.
The glow of godly eyes pierced even the darkest darkness, revealing the scar-faced general known to all in his company as "Gallows." The reveal of Gallows, of the winged lion which adorned his surcoat, from the shadows reignited the abhorrent hatred and sorrow within Daevarro's heart. His expression grew sneer and vehement, scorning the sight of the winged lion and they who adorn it.
But even in his seething ire, the dark-robed youth knew that Gallows's presence was a great threat. But the general came forth without a shred of eagerness to be seen, mournful of this situation. He was forced to steal another innocent life, a life unfortunately destroyed by the misdeeds of those in power.
"...Forgive me, boy," the one-armed general dolefully pleaded, readying his massive, claymore-like weapon. Gallows then lashed out at Daevarro, opening up a great offense upon the dark-robed youth. Daevarro was no warrior, not in any way, shape, or form. His curriculum in combat was basic, novice-level, for his instructor never believed that
this
would be in his future.
Yet his small, destitute frame managed to scramble and scamper around every attack. He even attempted to gain ground, but his impatience and poor timing led to him getting punished in minor, albeit painful ways. But frankly, if Gallows had any actual interest in taking the boy's life, it would already have been done. In a panic, Daevarro began casting weakness spell after weakness spell at Gallows, but none seem to have any effect on him.
Just as the idea of hurling a fireball came to mind, Daevarro realized that he had no more runes. Yes, runes were scarce, their supply even scarcer, and Daevarro didn't have very many to begin with. Yet suddenly, they both heard the whistle of an arrow let loose. And in the very next instance, the big, bulky body of the scar-faced general was sent staggering backwards, that arrow finding and digging into him.
A brutal, horribly disfiguring shot delivered to the left of Gallows's face, puncturing the middle of his cheek. Gallows groaned and grunted in his suffering, clasping his face as his blood rolled down his forearm. The enraged Daevarro, watching the blood trickle from his now weakened enemy, made a mad dash to seize this opportunity. He raised his dagger, an ornate, perverse weapon reminisce to a dirk, up high, intent on bringing it down upon the wounded general.
But Gallows, even in all of his pain, caught the dark-robed youth in the act. He reached his blade up, locking the small cross-guard of Daevarro's dagger inside of his own sword's cross-guard as it came down. The general then launched his right leg forward, his metal sabaton crashing into Daevarro's breastbone and blasting the lightweight youth off of his feet.
Yet suddenly the wisps of mist grew unsettled and departed, opening a hole for the sight of a new adversary. He who shot this wretched arrow in Gallows's face came forth from the abyss, the brash, red-haired archer Shinon Isaiah. Shinon aggressively turned his sword against the scar-faced general, an attack which Gallows briskly repelled.
But then an unexpected sight caught Gallows's eye, an object flying at him without falter. Shinon was an ireful, frustrated archer, hitting a spot he had not intended. ...And he blamed his bow for it. No, this bow was not
his
bow, the one unfortunately demolished by the King of the West Silas Alverra.
In his utter disgust and disdain for this pathetic excuse for a bow, Shinon awkwardly took it by the limb and swung it like it were a blunt weapon. The hot-headed strike cracked against the top of Gallows's shaven head, and the bow's mediocre-quality yew wood exploded on impact. The attack, although a rather stinging reception, certainly wasn't a killing blow by any stretch of the imagination.
Noting that truth, Shinon stepped into the general, hungry to capitalize on his surprise attack. But as splinters fell from his head, Gallows easily managed to deflect Shinon's attack and sweep him off of his feet. The archer, in his frustration, fell down, his bunched-up expression whipping against the floor below.
Gallows then stomped down on the archer, his leg pinning him down onto the ground. He then prepared his sword and intent to kill Shinon...but his arm was frozen. It was pulled up, ready to plunge down and capture the life of his opponent...yet nothing happened. He stood there, face agape and bleeding from the arrow still in his face, but nothing happened at all. He may have intended to kill Shinon, but he didn't want to. Not at all.
Gallows then mercifully lifted his foot up off Shinon's back, allowing him to escape with his life. Shinon returned to his feet, making Gallows become the recipient of a look most conflicted and perplexed. Why would he spare his life? For what purpose? The two just sort of stared at one another, trading glances as though they were words.
But then the tip of a blade horrifically ripped out from Shinon's breast, splattering blood upon the alarmed face of the scar-faced general. It stained his surcoat, the winged lion which represented this strong-arm of oppression... Shinon's body then crashed down upon the ground, becoming like a curtain to reveal his killer to the sky-blue eyes of Gallows.
Drakon Kórakas, Orderer of the Loyal Knights of the Royal Family, appeared there with the freshly bloodied sword. As the sounds of steel and war thundered all around them, Drakon stepped up in Gallows's face. His glowing teal blue eyes taking the role of judge, jury, executioner, casting judgment upon Gallows like sentencing him to die. He was disgusted with Gallows's hesitance, his outright reluctance -- perhaps even refusal -- to take that life...
Drakon then swung at Gallows, slamming the back of his left hand into his mouth. A strong hit, but not enough to stagger the giant general. Gallows simply stood there and gave no reply to the Orderer's attack, choosing only to spit out the blood from a few now-broken teeth in the opposite direction.
"Growing soft, are we?" Drakon then mocked in a condescending tone. The moment their tension reached a high, Gallows's head turned rightward. His grievous sky-blue vision stretched across the surrounding area, unable to find a trace of the dark-robed boy. Gallows's mind ran with question as to the location of the boy, a subject plain to see on his face.
"I take it you spared the cultist boy as well?" Gallows then heard Drakon jab. But the scar-faced general paid no mind to Drakon's comments, choosing to focus on the fight with steel, not the one with words. The clamor of war echoed everywhere, surely implying that the boy couldn't have gone far.
But it wouldn't be long before Gallows saw him again, for the dark-robed youth sought him himself. Daevarro aggressed towards Gallows, with a menacing glare and a dagger raised. Gallows quickly chopped his blade across Daevarro, watching then his image scattered into shadowy wisps instantly.
Both Gallows and Drakon were then ensnared in a vexing, but frustrating loop, slashing through Daevarro clone after Daevarro clone with aggravating repetition. But as Gallows furiously cut through this ceaseless discharge of 'enemies', the sounds of horrific distress funneled into his ears.
He turned his gaze backwards, even as the shadow clones came to 'attack' him. And he watched it, a most gruesome takedown unfolding before his very eyes...
The real Daevarro somehow managed to get up on Drakon's back, and he began madly thrashing his dagger into wherever he could fit it. Be it Drakon's head, neck, or throat, he chose no particular target on purpose. His face went wild and berserk, going into this feverish frenzy as if possessed. And indeed he was, for he was utterly compelled by this overpowering disease, this hatred to outright murder those who bore the winged lion.
The savage assault of impalements brought Drakon onto his knees, his body succumbing to the profuse blood loss. But it mattered not to Daevarro that he had secured Drakon's demise, churning ahead on his vicious rampage. Drakon's blood came down from his head like it were melting rapidly, and he collapsed, taking the dark-robed youth along with him. Gallows looked on in disbelief, unable to put together how such a docile-looking boy could possibly be capable of such brutality.
Daevarro's last strike found the base of Drakon's skull, his cold, dark gray dagger like the final nail in his coffin. As Daevarro panted in his taxation, his subtly glowing hazel eyes beheld the godly light from Drakon's irises as it began to fade. As it dissipated, the many arcane engravings throughout the blade of Daevarro's dagger began to shed an ominous red light. And as the light in Drakon's lifeless eyes weakened, the light channeling through Daevarro's dagger seemed only to intensify, almost as if it were thieving it...
It was then that the scar-faced general Gallows's shocked expression contorted, becoming something of confused, perhaps even fear. Drakon's life had smoldered, his consciousness and light having been absorbed. Its purity perverted, distorted, becoming this foreboding red glow. The moment the light seemed finished feeding on Drakon's soul, it began to move as if with a mind of its own.
It channeled through the dagger, then into Daevarro's hand. His voice sundered the soundscape with a most painful, blood-curdling scream as it entered his flesh. Yet no matter his pain, Daevarro made no inclination to simply let go...perhaps he couldn't.
The sinister-looking red energy then began to flow up Daevarro's arm like it were blood in his veins. It was a light so striking that it actually bled through his flesh, even his clothing, revealing blood vessels as it passed. It climbed up his arm, and the closer it got to its destination, the greater the pitch of Daevarro's scream was undermined.
Yes, beneath his scream laid something else, piercing the air as him. Yet its pitch was unnaturally deep, like that of a monstrous, otherworldly creature. The light began to flood into his chest, and his voice became one with this evil, wailing undertone. Its final destination at hand, funneling into the blackened pendant around his neck.
Daevarro's body was then enrobed in a miasmic aura of energy, a most menacing shroud of scarlet. This heinous blood-red tinge pulsated throughout his being, but an even greater, more ominous light shed from the pendant around his neck. Some of its profane light had even begun to solidify, taking on a twisted, iniquitous form. The pendant became encased in a strange substance, crimson in color and neither hard nor soft. It twitched and squirmed around as though alive, dripping with a blood-like liquid as though the seepage of sacrifice.
The scar-faced general Gallows knew not what to make of this change. Even
his
legs became like stones, shuddering as the dark-robed youth ripped his dagger from the crackling skull of his enemy. Even despite his age, Gallows could still lucidly recount the stories of the demon goddess Lamia, stories read to him when he was a child. They were over-exaggerated fairy tales, the machinations of wet nurses for the sole purpose of frightening children, he surely believed...
But upon this day, his beliefs became misconceptions, proven false when put to the test. Yes, to Gallows, the look of Daevarro was almost diabolical. His hunched-over disposition, the quickness of those wild, seething breaths pouring out from between his clenched, bare teeth... Even the glow of his eyes, a source of great pride in any Solasúian, was bastardized, turning a piercing crimson.
And like the proud glow of a god's eyes, this radiance which surrounded Daevarro in sheer, unadulterated malice penetrated through the blackened mist. A Loyal Knight confronted the source of the light and horrific wailing, find it then emitting from a young boy. The knight charged at Daevarro without falter, recognizing the heinous nature of his clothing and its Lamian association.
The moment the Loyal Knight's black sabaton crashed against the ground, strange black wisps moved unnaturally and surrounded Daevarro. Stolen from the mist which blanketed the area, they then amassed and began swirling madly in several locations beside Daevarro. Even the stoic Loyal Knight halted in their stead, staring with utter vexation as the churning wisps of black became entire people.
They appeared from nothing, seemingly beckoned from another world to Daevarro's protection. Their faces were strikingly life-like, possessing qualities that made them indistinguishable from real people. And each of them wore a garb identical to Daevarro's own. Without hesitation, the strange cultists jolted, going after the knight who threatened Daevarro's life.
Noting this incoming assault, the Loyal Knight raised their shield, that massive, scutum-like hunk of black steel. Both the Loyal Knight and Gallows watched in shock, their ceremonial weapons somehow passing through his shield as though it weren't even there. Then the knight felt a keen sting emit from his neck, the weapons phasing even through his armour and slashing his flesh.
Their cuts were very minor alone, but they had sort of a train effect, each of them cutting the same exact area as they passed. They spelled the knight's doom, slashing his jugulars as if deliberately targeted. But as the knight attempted to contain the bleeding, he received quite a shock. Daevarro dashed off of the ground, surging towards the knight with thoughts of horrific murder filling his head.
And as the enraged youth darted, his deep, ghoulish voice let out a scream of both irreplicable animus and irreparable sorrow. Despite his meager build, he violently pounced upon the knight, his frantic, feather-weight body somehow taking the knight's fully-armoured body to the ground.
Daevarro, in his hysterical, bloodlusting mindset, then became absolutely absorbed in his wrath. Just as with Drakon, Daevarro furiously drove his dagger down upon the knight with sickening repetition. His thrusts came in rapid, violent succession, aiming through the knight's helmet's eye slits.
So drunk on his wrath was he that he cared not for precision, occasionally missing his mark and puncturing the black steel of the helmet. He wanted to kill them, to completely and wholly annihilate those damned glowing eyes. He just kept stabbing the knight, even as the knight's body was clearly lifeless and convulsing.
Awashed in the blood of those who dared to affiliate with the winged lion, Daevarro's engulfing wrath finally told him to rise...and seek the next one. The malice-drunk Daevarro then turned westward, finding the winged lion adorned upon the surcoat of the bald-headed general Gallows.
Its very sight made Daevarro's face scowl with such furor that it seemed almost unnatural. It was as though it wasn't even
his
face being manipulated anymore. Those strange cultist-shadows adjoined beside Daevarro once more, appearing then in a ephemeral, ethereal plume of black mist. With the brief calm he had before the storm, Gallows carefully weighed his options and analyzed.
