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13-Lords: The Shadow of Death: Azrael Incarnate |
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He had not moved in centuries- the chains that bound him to the bones of his realm would not allow it. All that time, he waited, his rage burning from the socket of the skull that had long ago rotted away. A being beyond the concept of mortality, of time. His tongue rotted, he could no longer scream. His flesh gone, he could not fight
The voice of a soul screamed with rage equal to his. the power of death entered him, and the chains began to corrode- the invincible chains that had even bound that Legendary Wolf were as nothing to this insanity.
The mouth with no tongue screamed.
The bones with no flesh moved.
The sockets with no eyes saw.
The Chains were gone, the way stood open.
He would help that voice, that scream so like his own.
He shudderingly stepped from his prison. The light of his world shone around him.
"What's this? What do you think you're doing?" A robed figure. He knew it not. He simply pointed to the end, the exit, Life.
"You think to escape from here? To defeat we Twelve who follow the Reaper?"
His skull could only grin for expression, but a nod sufficed for an answer.
"Then come, broken soul. Face the power of Death, and if you can reach Life, do so."
The figure cackled. "I look forward to your attempt little spirit."
He shrugged and continued forward.
Time had no meaning in this land. He could've walked for hours, or maybe days. All he knew was the scenery. He had crossed deserts, oceans, forests and continents.
He now faced a castle.
Time free of his chains had restored his flesh, a gaunt, featureless devoid of sex. from his shoulders and ribs were protrusions that showed him to be a being of power.
He felt it here- a piece of himself that would restore him. Allow him strength.
At the Portcullis he stood, a lone figure in his way. It was a figure wreathed in armor, standing strong at seven feet.
"If you bastards of Michael wish to pass, you better have more than that weak s**t you've been bringing."
Its voice ground against the metal, voiding it of gender. It took a stance, and in its hands formed a blade equal to its height.
"As a Knight of Death, I give you my name. I am Lancelot du'Lac!"
He screamed at the name. An enemy...
No, a roadblock.
Screaming he rushed forward. The heavy blade roared over his head, and he clawed at the breastplate of his foe. It melted under his fingers, much to his foe's surprise.
He quickly turned, but his foe knelt- the wound in the armor bled uncontrollably.
"I see. You are not one of Michael's. Still... I dont know if you are he for whom we wait- that shriveled form. Take my sword. You'll need it if you expect to make it to the end."
 Azzy Rael · Thu Feb 28, 2013 @ 09:15am · 0 Comments |
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