His hand upon his forehead met with sweat, a raging fever in the night. A map of Valoran lay spread upon the table before him. The Grand General's vision began to undulate. The single candle on the desk faded in and out of focus. Vomit rising in his throat, stinging open sores inside his body, burning, churning, choked him where he sat. He knit his brows and shut his blazing eyes against the pain. His breath caught in his chest.
A cough came, weak, restrained against bubbling bile. The building pressure in his stomach threatened to send black blood-steeped fluid bursting forth at any moment. No time even to plead with The Darkness. No sense in a struggle. The fit would overwhelm him regardless. Ever more frequently came these surges of sickness as the Grand General's body continued its decline. His fist balled upon the desk, trembling, veins bulging. Tears began to form in the corners of his crimson eyes, clenched so tightly against the churning of his wasted insides.
He gasped for breath, one hand springing to his chest, a melodic ringing in his ears. His eyes sprang open, bulged, but not at the image of his desk. Memories swam before him. He sat in rapture at the Maven of the Strings' concert, dormant emotions stirred by the dance of her gentle hands over her etwahl. He raised a poisoned arrow at the head of an unwitting young prince. He froze; he could not fire. A bottle broke over his head. Blood ran from his temple. He raised his arm in grim command of his forces. He led them to victory. They triumphed by his unrivaled ingenuity.
Pain. His leg shattered as bone pierced skin. Warmth. The matron's perfect body. Hunger. The Raven's guiding silhouette against the sun. Ambition. Darkwill's overdue recognition of his prowess. His acceptance into High Command. Success... Failure. Simply because of this form? Never.Just make it to the chamberpot. Please, just make it there.
Eyes still shut, he forced himself from his chair, wobbling legs scarcely able to support his shrunken body. A sharp intake of breath. A grunt of pain. A single tear of exertion. A bead of sweat upon his fevered flesh. He willed his ailing form to walk--but found himself overwhelmed by vertigo. The Master Tactician stumbled sideways, collapsed to his knees on the carpet. From her perch, Beatrice watched, her head tilted, clicking her beak in an avian imitation of concern. The bitter taste of blood and bile emerged from his throat. He retched, helpless to even drag himself to the washroom. The expulsion of rotting fluid would come, no matter how he attempted to suppress it.
A withered hand tugged at his shroud, exposing a trickle of vomit over blackened flesh. Beneath his nose, his face had rotted through, exposing muscle, fat and bone and teeth. His lips hung crooked, forever agape, dissolved by his corrupt infection. A gag, a retch, a whimper. A torrent of bloody ooze rushed from his lips and splattered on the carpet. Pain like white hot electricity coursed through him as he heaved, the filth cascading volumes from his lips, splattering sickly on the carpet. Reduced to a trembling pile on the floor, the Grand General pressed one arm over his churning stomach, the other attempting to support him where he knelt.
Another retch, another blinding surge of pain. He hunched over the puddle, the force of his gagging nearly causing him to loose the contents of his bladder. The bile rushed forth with such force that it spewed from his nose, stinging raw membranes, dribbling down his marred visage. "Stop it!" came his desperate cry between convulsions. "Please..."
More fever visions. The single candle flickered. Beatrice fluttered down beside him, her wings spread wide as though in vain protection. The whole of Demacia lay at his feet aflame, Jarvan IV's body incinerated before him. The flame clung to his robes as well, licking at his flesh. And every burn he felt. Each surge of heat washed over him as though this vision of destruction were as real as the lake of bile in which he collapsed, barely breathing. His eyes were dying embers in the gloom. He clung to consciousness there, alone with his affliction--but only just.
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 7, 2013 19:18:26 GMT -5
As Swain lay on the floor, barely clinging onto his life, a whispering voice started to weave it's way into his mind.
Jericho Swain...Why do you cling to life in vain? Your body is so very weak, even if your mind is strong. All things have a time and a place...And your time has long since passed. Your magics drain you, and yet they prevent you from passing beyond Death's Door.
So, here you lay. Your body, broken. Your spirit, in torment. Plagued with illness and so much pain...Why do you not simply let go?
The candles illuminating Swain's chamber were all snuffed as a dark presence began to manifest itself, forming a black, obscuring mist that slowly faded away to reveal Karthus, the Deathsinger. He bore the attire of a reaper, his skeletal form shrouded by a tattered, black robe and carrying a scythe in his right hand. When he had fully materialized he spoke, still using the same whispering tone as he had but moments ago.
"You fight a losing battle, Jericho. One you cannot possibly hope to win. You have accomplished more than most men could dream of in your life....You have earned a respite. Allow me to take you beyond Death's Door, and I will allow you an eternity of peace."
The Deathsinger knelt and extended his free hand towards the collapsed form of Jericho; A symbol of Karthus' promise of well-deserved rest. All it would take was for Swain to let go of his mortal body, and he would enjoy eternity beyond Death's Door, to finally be able to partake in the Final Slumber.
Blazing eyes sprung open, flared in the dark. The Grand General could not even lift his head from the puddle of vomit in which he lay, his breathing rough, uneven. The flames of his vision burned eternally about the room, ever roaring, never consuming, an echo of his mind. Was this spectre but another construct of his feverish imagination? Beatrice squawked from his other side, fluttered up from the floor, perturbed, and perched upon his desk. Her crimson eyes leered over the Lich.
It was real, then, the reaper. It was here. It extended its hand. "I'm not..." Jericho's voice trailed off, barely a whisper. He could not--or would not--move to take its bony hand. But why? Rest, so near, the sleep he had been missing. How long had it been, even, since he'd lain down to sleep untroubled by nightmares? How long was it since he had shut his eyes more than a few hours at once, more than a nod in his chair? He lay so exhausted he could not hoist himself up from his own expulsion, though it singed his raw flesh.
You are not finished here.[/color][/size]
"I'm not finished," he rasped. His brows contracted. Every thump of his troubled heart sent shockwaves of agony through him. Even as he spoke the words, tears welled in his eyes. Peace. What was peace but victory? And death was defeat, submission to mortality. The weak need rest. The weak succumb. His stomach collapsed, it's contents expelled, leaving his core so empty it ached.
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 7, 2013 22:04:13 GMT -5
The Deathsinger chuckled. Foolish mortal. Still clinging to his life like a child to it's favorite doll. "Jericho....You have accomplished more than anyone could hope to achieve. You brought Noxus to the highest point in it's history. You became one of the most powerful mortals in all of Valoran. What does it truly matter, if you cannot rule the entirety of Valoran? You have earned your respite. Why do you resist the Eternal Slumber?"
Karthus' glowing Yellow eyes looked into Swain's. "What keeps you bound to this world? By all means, you should be dead by now. Tell me, tactician. By what sorcery are you still living...?"
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 7, 2013 22:45:14 GMT -5
A fire blazed in his eyes, despite his prostrate form. His expression shifted. His face became a picture of something dark, bizarre, inhuman.
"Purpose."[/color][/size]
The Master Tactician's maw formed the words, but they seemed to issue from the very air, the very walls of the room. Karthus' darkness intensified until the only sources of light in the room were those of the Lich's yellow eyes, the crimson beads of Swain's fiendish familiar, and the Grand General's own blazing through the shadows. His body did not move, but his eyes shone like beacons of grim resolve, reflected in the pool of vomit.
"We are not mortal, herald of Death. We live because we must. Because this is our realm. This husk will not rest before we lay claim to our right."[/size][/color]
Its words echoed through the gloom. The shadows lifted. The moonlight was permitted to shine again and Jericho Swain's face returned to its human state, ailing, lined prematurely, brows knit. "More yet... to be done..."
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 8, 2013 0:13:28 GMT -5
Karthus' eyes flared as Swain -Or, rather, what was decidedly NOT Swain- speak to him. Some being dared deny Jericho of his eternal rest? It mattered not. Death comes to all; Death claims whom it pleases. Nothing can stand in the way of Death. All must die eventually; What was this being to tell him anything different?
The reaper stood, his scythe lowered to point at Jericho. "I have no qualms with you, creature. Rescind your hold upon this mortal and I shall not be forced to dag you beyond Death's Door along with him. Consider my offer, and choose wisely."
Karthus then addressed the tactician himself, an almost saddened look entering the blazing orbs that were his eyes. "I am truly sorry that this had to happen to you, Jericho. However, all things must come to an end, and I shall be yours. Either you come with me willingly...Or I must end you, here, and bring you to your Final Slumber."
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 8, 2013 1:11:20 GMT -5
The Grand General's limbs twitched as though directed by some invisible marionette strings. Jerkily, they positioned themselves to lift him from the ground. Gnarled fingers splayed in the filth. His eyes remained unblinking as he rose to his feet with the grace of one unimpaired by illness. His maw drew upwards in some sinister semblance of a grin as he stood, his head lolling on his shoulders. Again the voice issued forth from everywhere at once.
"Do not threaten us, reaper. This soul is spoken for. We are not of your realm. You have no right to claim us."[/color][/size]
Wan flesh bubbled and writhed. It drooped like a melting mask before bursting forth in a bloom of ebon feathers. The man's skull elongated; his maw became a beak. His form shot upwards, broadened, bulked, seven feet tall and rippling with muscle. Onyx wings unfurled from Its back. The stench of rot drifted from Its beak as it let out a laugh, an unearthly cackle.
"The soul is bound to us Deathsinger, and no dirge of yours can lull it into Sleep."[/size][/color]
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 8, 2013 1:55:02 GMT -5
The golden glow of Karthus' eyes narrowed at the beast before him, but the Deathsinger stood his ground as he leveled his scythe towards what was formerly the body of Jericho Swain. This abomination would be put to rest, by his hand.
"Jericho's soul belongs to Death; you have tormented him long enough, fell creature."
The orb on the end of Karthus' warscythe glimmered with dark energy as the Deathsinger spoke a simple curse.
"Eihwaz!"
A bolt of the blackest, most ancient magics arced from the Scythe, burning an ancient symbol into both Jericho's mortal body and his immortal soul, marking both him and the Raven that bore his body.
"And so, Raven, Jericho, you have been marked for death. There will be no place you can hide, for Death sees all. There will be nowhere you can run, for Death will eventually catch up with you. No army, no magic, no fortress made by mortals of this world or any other can hold Death at bay, for Death is patient. Men grow weak, magics falter, and fortresses crumble. And when all is said and done, I will come for you, and Death will be waiting for you both. Pray your end come swiftly; for you will pass Death's Door. So it is spoken, so it shall be."
Karthus drew back his scythe into a defensive posture, awaiting the Raven to make his own fatal move.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 8, 2013 3:54:19 GMT -5
Karthus magic crackled forth like black electricity. It seared green upon contact with The Raven's feathers, an acrid scent arising from the rune that flared over Its chest. A snarl issued from its throat. Six crimson eyes burned indignantly in the darkness. How dare this servant of Runeterra's Death seek to dominate It! To seal Its "fate!" Preposterous.
All things come to an end? This impertinent Lich must wish for its own, to presume to mark The Raven's fearsome form. It scoffed. The rune's radiant glow washed over onyx feathers. Its monstrous talons began to radiate green light. Blazing through the shadows, the luminous energy spread like flames over the demon's body. The slice of Its claw caused the floor to spring up into talons around Karthus' form. The altered marble glowed green in sickly echo of its shaper's blazing aura. These enchanted bonds would hold both corporeal and incorporeal, empowered by The Raven's rage.
It growled its sinister warning to its captive:
"Remove it, presumptuous wraith, or we shall crush you for your audacity. This soul is ours and ours alone."[/font][/color]
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 8, 2013 16:35:56 GMT -5
The Deathsinger stumbled slightly at the talons' appearance, yet he stood his ground and steeled his gaze further. "That soul belongs to Death, and no being, from this plane or any other, shall withhold it from Him." This brought to mind what presumptuous being would dare defy Death itself....No matter. It would be dragged into the Abyss like all other beings who chose such a path.
Hoping to slay the creature where it stood, Karthus extended his free hand towards the Raven and uttered a quick offensive spell: "Taydr pumd!", The orb atop his scythe crackled with sickly orange energy, feeding the spell that Karthus cast as a bolt of necromantic magic rocketed from his palm towards the Raven.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 8, 2013 18:21:28 GMT -5
The orange bolt collided with the demon's blazing aura, flaring purple where it hit with green: a luminous display of the various energies at work and their strange reactions to one another. The Raven let out a harsh laughter, echoing, sinister, as Its demonflame arced out in the shape of swooping ravens, dispersing energy from the spot of impact through the rest of its enveloping fires.
The demonflame blazed brighter as it absorbed the energy cast. Its monstrous form lumbered nearer the immobilized Lich, a claw extended to grasp Karthus by the skull, now ablaze with purple energy. To one such as The Deathsinger, attuned to the various energies of Runeterra, this purple glow was recognizable as an absorption spell, which would siphon the spirit energy from Karthus upon contact.
"This realm's Death has no power over us, fool. And nor do you."[/color][/size]
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 8, 2013 20:51:57 GMT -5
The Deathsinger's eyes widened as his blast collided with the Raven's shield, to no effect. There were few mages in Runeterra that could withstand such a blast utterly unaffected......Karthus tried to avoid the beast's claw, but, being bound by the specrtal talons that had sprouted from the floor, the Raven managed to grasp his bony skull, knocking back his hood as it reached for him.
This spell.....The Raven's talon was drawing from the very magics that held the Deathsinger's body together. If his mouth were not permanently cemented in a skeletal grin, he would have almost started to smile. The Raven was spelling it's own doom: Karthus' body was bound together with the powers of Unlife. He could only imagine what such energies would do to a creature who walks amongst the living.
"Drink your fill, creature; you taste the very essence of Death." Karthus reached his free hand up towards the Raven's arm, grasping it and casting a minor cantrip to channel even more negative energy into his body from the Eye of Shadows, using it to sustain himself and further harm the parasitic Raven.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 8, 2013 21:52:42 GMT -5
There should have been power coursing from the Lich's form into the demon's. There should have been strength. But instead searing pain rushed through Its hulking form as Karthus channeled negative energy into It. Six red eyes widened, flashed in the gloom. The Raven ripped Its claw from Karthus' grasp almost in shock. To drain this being's essence, to destroy the reaper completely, could bring about Its own ruin...
"Gah!"[/color]
It cradled Its stinging talon, lifting Its glare to meet with the Deathsinger's skull-like visage.
"You will pay for that."[/size][/color]
Like a giant beast of prey, It barreled forward. The spectral claws retracted into the floor as Its massive shoulder collided with the Lich's body, forcing him back against the stone wall with as much force as a charging stallion. After It crushed Karthus into the wall, The Raven seized his robes and drew him up from the ground, red eyes leering with malice.
Post by The Deathsinger on Apr 9, 2013 0:35:01 GMT -5
Karthus felt a semblance of pain for the first time since his last League match as he was bashed against the wall. He felt a few of his ribs crack, and one broke fully, clattering to the ground as it started to disintegrate into a fine, white powder, it's corporeal form unsustainable when separated from Karthus' body. The beast was very strong indeed....But Karthus had more than a few tricks up his sleeves.
As the Raven raised him into the air by it's talons, Karthus thrust his free hand towards It's face, fingers pointed towards it's nearest trio of eyes. He shouted a quick incantation -"Pinnufehk Puho Tekedc!"- as his fingers on that hand dislodged themselves from the rest of his hand and rocketed into the Raven's face, attempting to worm their way into It's flesh.
Post by The Master Tactician on Apr 9, 2013 1:03:01 GMT -5
The Lich's fingers dislodged themselves and shot at the demon's face like bullets of bone. They connected, sharp as blades, and began to dig themselves into Its face--Its eyes. A roar shook the room, the castle, the very mountain upon which these two dark entities now raged in bitter combat. The Raven flung Karthus to the ground and began to claw at Its face, extracting the digits as quickly as It could from Its eyes, then from Its cheeks.
Black blood streamed from the holes left by the enchanted bones, from the punctured eye sockets. The Raven flung Karthus' projectiles away, where they clattered to the floor, twitching, and dissolved into dust, just as his rib had done. The Raven's three good eyes blazed with a fury beyond human capacity, a hatred so fervent that palpable heat washed over the subject of Its gaze.
With a furious somatic gesture, the beast sliced at the air and spectral talons again rose up from the floorboards, binding Karthus' prostrate form where he lay. A single talon extended, glowing brighter than the rest of The Raven's flame-shrouded body, so bright that the green beam it issued could nearly blind, could be seen through The Master Tactician's window in the city far below.
"A thousand demons could not break our will, Deathsinger,"[/size][/color] the Raven's ominous voice echoed through the night. "How should you?"[/size][/color]
The beam shot forth, surrounding the Lich's body in demonic energy. Heat enveloped him. Furious heat. And at once a chill as bitter as the Freljords' storms. The disintegration ray would turn the strongest steel to dust. Brittle bones stood no chance awash in its sickly light.
Welcome to Maelstrom, Original Characters, Summoners and Champions alike. We are a divergent setting roleplay forum for the ever-popular MOBA by Riot, League of Legends. This means we are based in Riot canon, but your characters' actions can have a real, lasting impact on the world. Together, the Maelstrom community endeavors to bring the League of Legends setting and characters to life through collaborative storytelling and meaningful development. We welcome you along for the ride.
Hang out in a citystate, visit the Institute of War, explore the uncharted recesses of Runeterra. Whatever you decide, good luck, have fun and happy writing.
hello new skin yes. gonna work out some kinks but let me know what you guys think. it's not all that flashy but i didn't really like the tabs so the side bar is back. oh and the cbox has also made it's appearance. -rurin.
Maelstrom was created by Swain. Written content is copyrighted to their creators on this site. The skin is created by Wolf and mini-profile template by Kuroya of Gangnam Style. The board and thread remodel is by Kagney and has been heavily edited by Rurin. League of Legends is owned by Riot Games. Maelstrom does not claim ownership to any images used unless stated otherwise.
cbox
Chat box has been removed for the time being. Please contact me at Wyerden@gmail.com, or skype name DearCryophoenix with for any questions or concerns.
