The frenzied Daevarro's legs bolted off of the ground in a blood-crazed dash, and the shadow replicas of his family followed just behind him, scattering before disappearing into nothingness. Daevarro's vindictive seething erupted into one deep, hellish, sorrowful scream, howling frighteningly throughout the opulent courtyard.
Gallows had begun to prepare himself for the screaming youth, but already he had found himself under attack. The cultist shadows came at Gallows in unison, striking at him with daggers identical to Daevarro's very own. They struck him from every angle, and he did what he could to evade them. But their numbers were far too great for even the supernatural reflexes of a god to handle, leaving Gallows to endure minor cuts and stab wounds all throughout his body.
To his shock, their weapons passed right through his armour. A perplexed occurrence, but the general recalled its happening to the fully armoured Loyal Knight whom Daevarro brutally murdered. Playing defensive wasn't going to win this battle, Gallows concluded, quickly and ruthlessly striking his sword through the bodies of his attackers. He attacked them like they were real people, his massive blade cleaving through most of them in only a handful of swings.
But unlike Daevarro's usual shadow creations, a single touch from something physical was not enough to disperse them, at least not completely. Gallows's sword bore through them, severing them in two. But their severed halves remained afloat, and their image was still retained. Small wisp-like tendrils seeped out from their severed ends, joining the two halves back together.
As his shadows recovered, the frenzied Daevarro stood within striking distance to his enemy. His manicial eyes beamed upon Gallows as he madly dashed, harboring an unquenchable thirst for the general's life. Gallows, noting the otherworldly pitch of Daevarro's scream grow closer to him, quickly defended himself.
Daevarro's belligerent downward strike slid into Gallows's cross-guard, allowing the general to whip the youth off to his right. Daevarro became exposed, a sight which surely Gallows intended to take advantage of. Yet he would be swiftly, solemnly denied, for Daevarro's replica family came to his protection.
They suddenly swarmed Gallows, their dirk-like daggers hailing down upon him. One of them even came forward with a thrust to Gallows's right eye, striking it almost deliberately. The eye is a crucial, sensitive sensory organ after all, and even minorly harmed can damage its function. Gallows's expression winced as the phantom dagger ripped out of his socket, leaving behind the gravely remains of his eye like a sliced open white balloon.
In response to this, Gallows hurled his massive blade through the body of the shadow cultist who wounded him. His sword carved through the figure vertically across, and the phantom's image began to ripple like sine waves. But the other shadows possessed the intelligence to follow after the debilitating injury, ganging up on the scar-faced general. Gallows strenuously protested, but his resistance proved futile in the end, for they managed to get his other eye.
The scar-faced general grunted painfully as his vision blackened completely. His teeth grew clamped and gum-bare, able only to feel, smell, and taste his irony blood trickling down his face. Gallows had to quickly adapt, readjusting himself to rely upon his other senses in this darkness. He listened in, tuning out the battle on the outside before it drowned everything else out.
And he heard it as it drew to him, a frantic, violent storm of footsteps...and the monstrous screaming of a boy. Gallows ignored the shadows, for there was nothing he could do about them now. They produced not a sound, not a scent, and he couldn't feel them if he outstretched his hand. Gallows's legs then suddenly jolted off to his right, hearing Daevarro's scream from above.
And sure enough, Daevarro crashed upon the earth. The tip of his sinister-looking dagger tasted the adamas, missing the bearer of the winged lion once again. Daevarro turned to his east, his strikingly red, glowing eyes seeping with venom as they sought after Gallows. His body shot up from the ground like his legs were springs, savagely assaulting the general.
He continued wailing with each attack, seemingly without a care of his vocal cords. Perhaps it was not he who was screaming, but something else entirely... Indeed, Daevarro had not a chance to generate such a pitch, for it was not of this world. Gallows tried his best to dodge Daevarro's life-seeking barrage, yet he felt the sting of reality rip in and out of his body every-so-often.
Daevarro's attack pattern was unorthodox, entranced by the sheer frenzy which embraced him in its cold, dead arms. There were even movements in his arsenal which were anatomically impossible to make, flailing his body around so violently that he actually dislocated a few of his own bones. An unusual act for anyone to commit to themselves, often considering their own preservation before all else...
...But any and all sense of self was completely and utterly lost to Daevarro, for now he had become an embodiment of pure hatred.
Daevarro's barrage, despite the horrible, throbbing pain one should experience in his place, continued ahead without end. Upon one attack of said barrage, Gallows properly anticipated its trajectory, a downward thrust aimed at his life. His legs sped to his left, plunging his own sword forward. Its thick, immense steel effortlessly impaled the cultist boy's frail, hyperventilating body, ripping through his abdomen.
His own blood rushed down his cassock, tainting its black nature. Yet as these crimson droplets showered the adamas below, Daevarro's fury refused to surrender. His low-pitched, monstrous voice sundered the soundscape, persistent even as Gallows removed his blade out from him.
Gallows had to protect himself, and regrettably, the cultist boy sought his life as relentlessly as his screaming. It didn't matter how much blood poured out from his wounds, the wrathful Daevarro was adamant and steadfast. After avoiding another belligerent attack, Gallows grabbed ahold of Daevarro's black garb. And then, with utmost ease, the one-armed general lifted the thrashing, lightweight body of Daevarro and mightily hurled it up and away.
The glowing body of the dark-robed youth sailed through the air space, his thin limbs scrambling around to gain some sort of control. But there was nothing he could do, especially in his all-consuming anger. His minuscule figure thundered down, bouncing off of the ground like he were made of rubber.
His hands opened up upon impact, forcing his ornate dagger out of his grasp. In the aftermath, not a sense of pain endured, laying there for not a moment longer. His fingers sickeningly clamped shut, his nails scratching against the adamas floor most irritatingly. He managed to his knees, empty-handed but not unarmed...
He reached for it, a belt going across his torso. Without hestiation or pause as to just what it was he reached for, Daevarro impatiently, savagely ripped it off of him. It fell down, this weapon which he had so selflessly, innocently preserved and cherished. A weapon he never dared to sully. Yet the value of this priceless treasure was lost to him, just as all of his senses.
The enraged youth held the weapon out in front of him, his maddening gaze affixed upon its simple, yet practically-designed scabbard. His fingers wrapped around its grip, feeling the softness of the blackened cloth wrapped around it. Whoever wrapped it did so with great care, making certain that it provided comfort to the wielder, but not at the cost of irritating one's grip.
And he ripped it out from its humble sheath, this most precious blade. He then angrily cast the scabbard aside, for it was useless in his blood-driven quest for retribution. Daevarro unleashed it upon the world, a beautiful, elegantly-designed katana. Its steel a silvery-white, glistening in the darkness like a beacon. A light to the blind, a light which he thoroughly rejected sullying.
It was an awfully hefty blade for the young boy, being about three-feet in size compared to his delicate, meager five-foot-seven frame. Regardless, Daevarro took it into his hands like it was just another weapon, ignoring his throbbing nerves as they screamed at him about a dislocated right shoulder.
Amidst the certain death surrounding him, Daevarro's thin, brittle legs sprung to life. His body rushed forward in a steadfast, maniacal sprint, raising his sword up higher and higher as he charged. And he roared, roared at the top of his lungs. A roar which crackled with sorrow almost as much as it did with rage. A wistful, monstrous howl, reminiscent to one final utterance before the very end. Yes, the enraged Daevarro was prepared to give his everything, even as he had nothing left to give...
That roar like hailing the end pulsated throughout the glorious courtyard, causing many to pause and become vexed by its nature, yet it captivated them. It reverberated even outside of the walls of the Imperial Palace, its desperate nature resonated with one. Yes, beyond the walls of the Imperial Palace, that desperate nature resounded within the heart of one who yearned for death. And the end drew nearer, ever-so-nearer...
Upon this road, the great Adamas Road, laid the carcasses of hundreds -- if not, thousands -- of Solasúians. The quality of their soulless bodies greatly varied, from partially crushed to completely mangled. The former suffered in indescribable agony, such that their expressions were grotesquely expanded even in death.
Their dim, lifeless eyes bulged out of their skulls, their jaws cracked so wide open that one could still hear their blood-curdling wails. Their anguish was clearly visible, but the one who inflicted their suffering paid them with only apathy. The steely brown eyes of him glanced upon this sprawl of death, the mangled, disfigured carnage which he had left behind. The adamas street beneath him was buried under feet of blood, maimed bowels, and mutilated, unidentifiable, mushy flesh piles.
Yet still, these horrific sights weren't enough to halt the few remaining Solasúians. Just like Daevarro, their voices roared with definite conviction as they raced towards the perpetrator of this massacre. And he awaited their arrival, he who committed this practical genocide, the blood-soaked genius known as Telvern Thaddeus and his tool, his weapon, his blood-dripping, sky-piercing familiar...
The last few Solasúians in Telvern's opposition barged at him, seeking both him and the gargantuan beast behind him. The towering, steel creature swept its arm across the street, picking up the bodies of both the living and the dead. The beast flung them into the nearby buildings, destroying yet another structure upon this street.
During this act, the gods who managed to avoid getting crushed took their inherited adamas weaponry to the beast. They targeted the beast's forearm, their arms bringing their weapons down with all of their might. But in their utter shock and disbelief, they found even their vastly superior adamas did little. Even with their adamas and godly strength, they barely nicked the silvery-steel of the beast's exterior.
Beholding this bizarre conclusion, the gods were flabbergasted, perplexed by the outcome. How was it that adamas, the most durable, sharpest, greatest material of all, could not render this beast's nether flesh? They thought surely that they could easily glide through, yet they were denied, instilling hopelessness in the place of their vain confidence.
Yes, they swiftly abandoned any sense of victory to be grasped, turning their forlorn gazes northward. They watched as their world darkened like a solar eclipse, the sky collapsing right on top of their heads. The massive, silvery fist of Telvern's menacing beast thundering against the earth once again, crushing those hope-starved gods like the smite of a god.
A subtle, yet nauseating sound emitted from the impact: the squish of their flesh and organs exploding under the weight of the fist. Their blood and bits of their own guts blanketed everything, stealing yet another piece of resolve in the last remainder of resisting gods. Yet during this event, one god, clad in the blackened steel of loyalty, leapt off of the ground and landed on top of the steely monster's hand.
He clung for dear life, trying to regain control of his body as it whipped haplessly around. He was like a flag on a pole, waving around as the beast retraced its arm from the ground. The steel beast held its arm in front of it, its jarring, fiery gaze meeting with the intrepid, azure blue eyes of the ex-Loyal Knight who climbed aboard.
The knight, who proudly sported the banner with a serpent sigil upon his back, then carefully rose to his feet and began speeding up the beast's arm. A brave god...but a fool indeed, for many souls have acted this very way, and have perished. Wasting no time, the gigantic colossus smothered the foolishly brave knight and his efforts inside of its left hand.
The beast then catapulted the knight, casting him through the air like a stone. He became a ragdoll, his body twisting and spinning uncontrollably as he flew above his comrades' heads at unimaginable speeds. He was there, then he was gone, landing who-knows-where.
Down below, Telvern had to defend himself. A panicked god came his way, who launched a belligerent, overly-telegraphed attack. A simple read and riposte, Telvern thought, yet he underestimated the strange ailment which had begun to overcome him.
His every sense failed him, his legs buckling out from under him as he grew on the move. His weak, scrawny body crashed onto a knee, his pantleg soaked up the blood and guts beneath him. Overwhelmed by weakness, his breathing grew heavy and shallow, his lungs urgently forcing out even more blood. His blackening vision glanced upwards, finding the nearby threshold engulfed in glowing eyes. He was...surrounded.
Yet Telvern, despite seeming to reside himself to his fate, would be delivered from death. His destructive creation came to his aid, unloading a rather berserk response against those who would see its master harmed. It uttered a metallic, reverberating outcry as it madly thrashed its arms and legs around. Its fists viciously punched people, its feet savagely kicked people.
Bodies flew up into the air like they were toys, effortlessly ripped off of the ground. The impact of each hit made death a certainty, smashing bone, rupturing organs, and snapping spines like they were twigs. Those who survived had not a chance to rise, laying there in shambles, feeling their life dissipating rapidly.
Telvern somehow managed to get his shaking body up on its feet again, his bleak, ill complexion bathing in the late afternoon sun. His vision, blurring even behind his glasses, surveyed the massacre afore him. He was rooted in death, for every last god who resisted, thriving with eagerness and life only moments ago, now lied dead. They laid still and silent, breathing not a gasp, emitting not a glimmer. This sight served as signal to Telvern that the end...was here.
Telvern then slowly turned behind him, his head scaling up his towering beast. "...Thank you," he feebly, but graciously expressed to the steel creature. The moment after Telvern imparted those words, his protector began to fade away. Bright white flames blanketed it, but despite their appearance, they produced not an ounce of heat.
The beast was no longer of service, and so it gradually returned to its world, for it belonged not in this one. But before it disappeared entirely, the stalwart behemoth let out one final almighty roar, a voice so powerful that it rippled the airwaves from miles and miles away. It echoed throughout the distant sky, so much so that even Queen Lucia and her Loyal Knights could hear it from their position.
The strength of this mighty roar faded as the beast too began to disappear, fading away into nothingness. Telvern was left all alone, abandoned by everything and everyone. The only life to remain, trudging through this thick swamp of death. Piles of bodies and their tattered, bloodied entrails surrounded him, their blood seeping down and through the streets like a network of streams and creeks.
The blood-soaked genius then forced his weakly, trembling legs across this bloodied street, pushing them forward with every ounce of strength he could muster. He walked only a few small steps, but he grew rapidly out-of-breath and overexerted. His ailment taxed him of everything he had in him, making his body weigh like the world. Perhaps such a simile was not terribly far from the truth...
Indeed, the truth was, gravity came crashing down upon Telvern: the gravity of his transgressions; of his pain and grief, of all of his burdens. But one last thing surpassed even all of these, and that was the gravity of his memories. Yet these bittersweet recollections of his past life were abruptly halted, for a tremendous pressure flooded his chest cavity as if his lungs were about to burst.
And so they did, exploding in a ferocious onslaught of coughs even more horrific than the previous series. His right hand covered overtop of his mouth in reaction to this, practically feeling a lung rip out of his body. He succame to the gravity of his life which crushed him, forcing him onto his hands and knees.
As the hacks finally released him from their tumultuous grasp, Telvern's blood drenched his right hand like a glove. His heavy, shaking body slowly ascending, his joints aching under his weight. His sore, weakened lungs pushing out shallow, wheezing breaths, the back of his throat burning and seeping with excess blood after the attack.
He grew cold like he had become the living dead, capable now of only feeling pain. Pain in his body, and in his heart. The face of his love filled Telvern's ailing mind, just as it did everyday since they joined hands. The thought of her embraced him, enveloping him in a warmth like she herself were beside him.
As the memories of their togetherness bled him dry, he gazed off into the distant horizon. His blurry vision blackening, yet peeks of sun funneled through the darkness. Such a wonderful sight, Telvern believed, these vivid strokes of bright orange. A sight his former self would have once appreciated, but that kind, good-hearted person had become lost.
But within his strange, sudden ailment, within the pain of his failing body, came solace. The destruction of his enemies brought, the murder of his wife and child avenged. His focus now lied upon his much anticipated end, his gracious release from this wretched world. Yes, ever since that day, his heart burdened a grief that not a soul should ever face. An encumbering sorrow, and he desperately sought alleviation from it...
...Yet, Telvern chose to cling to his life, to shoulder this immovable melancholy. It wasn't a choice he made out of strength or perseverance, but for the sake of fulfilling some sense of purpose. Over the course of the past five years, the harrowful genius had almost obsessively contemplated the conditions of his death. Every detail was pondered, from the largest to the smallest, to the how, the where, and most importantly, the when. A grave, morbid thought, any reasonable person should believe, yet it was the only thought Telvern found comfort in.
