Of Gods and Man - Wallace's Gambit Ch.11

It was the laugh echoing in the air around them that both wrought confusion and anxiety about the surroundings. Where once people celebrated around the corpse of the great dragon titan, Yogregoriondiolaguvin, the Ebon Vessel and Scourge of the Skies, they paused, bewildered and peering frantically all around them for the source of the ominous, uproar, investigating the perimeter for inbound threats. Overhead the sky darkened with each bellowing guffaw, growing a shade of crimson with dark clouds that weren't present prior, moving to blot out the sun.

Yet the monster was from within.

From their perch low in the Realm of Dark, the Gods of evil watched with great intrigue, playing their part in the destruction of Ayn...an event that seemed all but assured. Ever since Wallace - God of Madness had, for once, found the inspiration to focus all of his power into creating a being of pure malevolence, the other vile deities began to take interest, watching his crusade and eventually being spurned to assist. However, it had not been Wallace that created Yogregoriondiolaguvin...It was Mordanan - God of Undeath, and it seemed he had prepared for the worse. Watching the avatar of his immense power fall did not upset, but rather delight and soon the battered and weary militia would witness the reasoning first hand. The corpse of the black beast remained still and lifeless, but from its many wounds a black ichor dripped free, joined only by an inky black fog that licked across the desert floor. It crept up the legs of the unaware and billowed out, choking the life of those close by. At first beckoning an initial clear of the throat, and then a more violent cough until they fell to their knees, one after another, lost within the toxic shroud. A few just outside would reach out for their comrades, refusing to let them succumb to the inky miasma, but what they were able to pull free was not what had entered the sun choking mist. Lunging at their saviors were husks of their former glory. Gaunt, pale, and with a ravenous hunger in their now red eyes, they clawed and grasped at their previous allies, either dragging them into the smoke or collapsing on top of them to begin their barbaric gnashing and gnawing. Screams filled the air as chaos ignited. Gillibee tried to flee, only to have her husband overpower her, leaping upon her back and biting down into her neck where, in a gory display, he would yank his gripping teeth in a vivid splash of blood that fell upon the dunes like crimson paint upon the sun-beaten canvas. "S-Stop! Please! S-!"

by Anderson Magalhães

Her last words as she attempted to reason with an unreasonable entity. No longer was this man biting onto her throat the darling she so endearingly shared sweet sentiments expressing her love to. This was a monster. They were all monsters, and all the group could do was look on as their former comrades moved with superhuman speed and strength to waylay those they, but moments ago, hugged in victory. Like a dark tide, the throngs of maddened, bloodthirsty wretches surged forth, trampling and maiming the confused masses that fell to their unrelenting assault. Standing out among the blood-frenzied fiends, however, were the more elite in ranks. Gelathorn, with froth upon his lips and black veins climbing along his neck like corrupt vines snaking along a fleshy canvas, swung his heavy blade and stood undeterred as a spear lunged through the meat of his shoulder. His vicious retort one of near silence - a growl bellowing within his stubble laden neck, and a dash of inhumane speeds to gnash his teeth into the face of his aggressor. However, it was Senera that bloomed like a blood soaked lotus among the lake of crimson that stained the scorching sands. Now free to express her rage, no longer restrained by the shackles of society and common decency, her twin swords were her fangs, and her leather boots her war drums. No sooner did she sweep her freshly sharpened blades across the neck of an unsuspecting victim was she lunging with a roaring determination to strike at the heart of the next. Though it was only after her callous boot kick that sent the corpse to the dirt did Toren'domir turn his focus towards her, rooted in place in sheer terror with words and wisdom stolen the words from his breath. Among the chaos and bloodshed, time seemed to stand still. Senera's head swiveled, and her blood red eyes locked onto her younger brother's.

And all that refelcted back was a wanton need for murder and bloodshed.

"Master Toren! Flee! Run, at once!!" Thystle's voice beckoned with clear concern. Prompted by his master's trembling hands and lead feet, the Florian barreled his body into him, shoving him away from the dark clouds, violence, and billowing sand, and positioning himself between the ever present threat and that which he swore to shepherd. Senera disregarded all that was around her, dashing over bodies to reach her quarry, only to be intercepted by the servant to her family, her gnashing teeth held at bay by hands desperately shoving at her forehead and neck. Finally, Toren ran. He ran despite the stomach turning scream of his dear friend. He ran until the sounds of ringing steel and ghastly howls could no longer be heard. He ran until he felt his lungs were soon to burst. Toren ran so far that his legs gave way long before his spirit, sending him to the dirt of the nearby forest and crawling away from horrors incomprehensible. He had set his eyes on the progenitors of foul Vampires and the pallor complexion and haunted gaze spoke magnitudes to how unwilling he was to witness such an event again. Even with the dunes long behind, all that filled his ears were the inhuman screams and the look of fury and murderous intent eminating from his sister's haunting stare. So wrapped up in his thoughts was he that he missed the heavy boots that trampled the underbrush, and the disturbed swaying of densely packed fronds. He was not the only one drawn by the comet. As opportunistic as they were green, warbands of Orcs began their march to join the fray. The trek, however, proved too long to attend the brutal confrontation, so instead they found sport in hunting the scragglers that were sent fleeing from the massacre. A net was thrown over an unsuspecting Toren, and soon he was surrounded by serrated spearheads and sharpened cleavers.