| WATER CHANNELS CLOGGED BY MYSTERIOUS SUBSTANCE A strange phenomenon has been causing chaos and disruption for citizens and city officials alike. A series of critical water channels that run throughout the city have been clogged by a mysterious substance, causing blockages and overflow in many areas. Local authorities are baffled by the substance, which appears to be a thick and viscous liquid with a black hue. It clings stubbornly to the walls of the channels and is proving to be resistant to all conventional means of removal. City engineers have been working tirelessly to identify the cause of the blockages and to clear the channels. However, progress has been slow due to the stubbornness of the substance and the sheer amount of water channels that need to be inspected and cleaned. The situation has become particularly dire for the citizens of the poorer districts, who rely on the water channels for their daily needs such as washing and cooking. Many of these citizens have been forced to resort to alternative water sources, which are often contaminated and pose a risk to their health. City officials are urging citizens to remain patient as they work to resolve the issue. Meanwhile, investigations into the nature of the mysterious substance are ongoing, with magical researchers and experts from around the nation being called in to assist. As of now, the cause of the clogging remains a mystery, however there is a clear lead that is being followed. |
~ Local news print from the Western Mountain City on a series of clogged water runways that are filled with a strange, oily substance and, oddly enough, mutilated toy sheep
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
There isn’t that much time left.
It doesn’t matter how far the crusade pushes; it doesn’t matter what Witch Perchta concocts in her latest scheme for revenge; the game is already close to ending.
Isaiah stands there, staring up towards the heavens, which come ever closer — not the heavens of the physical domain, which are impossible to reach no matter how high the tower grows, but rather the heavens of the spiritual — true heaven, where the gods reside. Once it is there, once the tower reaches the apex of its height at three hundred floors, the clock strikes midnight, and the final core activates, the barrier will be broken and the veil that separates both dominions from one another will be slashed open, letting in the light of the new day that is Isaiah.
The gods will see what their hubris, their indifference, what it has led to when it arrives at their precipice, crashing open the incorporeal gates of the palaces of kings of old.
Then, when all has been set right above, so too can the world below begin to heal. All of this nonsense, all of this destruction, carnage and senseless waste of the goodness of life can come to a stop. The people of the tower can live in peace for the rest of their days, as can all of those other kind souls around the world who wish for nothing more than to be free of the tyranny of the wicked and uncaring.
It will usher in a new age, a golden age that unites the brotherhoods and sisterhoods of all races in this world, guiding them into a future of untold prosperity and growth.
Nothing is going to stop it.
| ~ [New Area Added] ~ |
| The Whispering Precipice |
| Floor 190 |
| A strange, distant corner of the spirit world, to which no doors have led to for aeons. Now, however, one has appeared. |
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Dragonslayer} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower of Isaiah, Floor -10 |
He’s going to put a stop to it.
Aurin clutches his bleeding chest, the metal of the breastplate torn and mangled, folded against his own body like the edges of ripped paper — the fringes cutting into him as he moves.
The sword, chipped and marred with grime and blood, shines in the glow of thousands of spells, coming together to form a whole radiance amidst the battlefield. However, it isn’t just that, not in his eyes. The shine of hundreds of spells, bursts of damaging rays and soft auras of healing waves, is proof of the worthiness of the continued existence of life.
It pushes.
— He pushes, spit binds his teeth together as he charges forward, towards the challenger, the blade of the dragonslayer leaving trails of vapor behind itself as if it were cutting through water.
The corrupted seraphim, a creature with thousands of wings and just as many arms, holds its bows — half the number — at the ready and fires another volley of arrows their way. The pinpricks of light originating in its impossibly comprehensible presence forming the pinpricks of stars in the sky for only a brief second before the world around him is full of cutting, sharp things that press past his armor, past his sword, and past his body — Those that go through any of the former, he ignores.
— Push.
The blade cuts through the air, through the beast, filling the sky with the fall of feathers, which rain like virgin snow down all around them.
A wing strikes, clapping against him, sending him hurtling down towards the ground below, where he comes to a graceless crash, tumbling over himself and his sword. Aurin lays there, his raspy breath pushing his chest up off of the ground that his palm presses against, his knee adding pressure to the stones as he tries to pull himself up again.
Push.
The world pushes against him, however, and Aurin falls over, panting for breath that doesn’t come to him. The man flops over onto his back, looking down at his body, which has been pierced in too many places to count. Air doesn’t allow itself to be controlled by his functions anymore, floating mockingly around him but never letting him breathe a breath of it.
Push.
Aurin wheezes, trying to get up again, as he stares at the glowing entity above him, still in the fight that the others continue without him.
— But his body doesn’t push, despite his mind’s will for it to do so.
The man falls back down, unable to resist the weight of the universe. His eyes burn with a heat that, however, fails to transfer from his never-dying soul.
"Stay your place," says a voice to his side. Aurin turns his gaze, looking at a sister priestess kneeling down over him, her form obscuring his hunter’s gaze on his prey. She holds her hands against his chest.
"Move," says Aurin, trying to reach his enemy that she is blocking him from seeing.
The priestess places a hand against him, violently shoving him back down to the stones, before returning to her healing. "Stay your place, brother Aurin," she reprimands, as the magic of her channeled spell washes over his wounded body. "We’ll handle it from here," she says.
"No," replies Aurin, his eyes narrowing. "I can do more. It’s not necessarily."
"What is not necessary is your death," she remarks, pressing her hands against his wounds, causing a pulse of nausea and pain to move through him. She does so, not within the extent of her mercy, but to present to him his lack of choice in the matter, reprimanding him with the tool of pain as one would do to a beast. "We still have need of you yet."
The seraphim readies another volley of magical arrows above them.
"Move!" rasps Aurin, reaching up and grabbing her to push her out of the way.
His head rings, his vision blurring only enough for him to identify the small fist moving away from his face seconds after striking it.
"Stay your place," she repeats, shaking out her hand, before returning to her task of healing.
Thousands of arrows cut through the arena, falling down towards them like meteors from the failing principality of the night sky.
— Dozens of prismatic, magical barriers appear between them, the arrows shattering against the glass shields which hover in the area, managing to break through some, but not all of them.
However, those priests who used their own spells to protect them, remained defenseless themselves, many of them cut down in an instant by the volley.
"This is why we’re here, Brother Aurin," she reminds him.
A horn blows as the volley ends, signaling the start of the true crusade.
Hundreds of heavy crashes ring out around the arena as large, wooden crates are set down against the stone floors, the cargo inside having never been removed since the day they left the central-city weeks ago.
Swords rise up into the air, held back in straight angles, before being pressed into the wood that is filled with their own brothers and sisters, cutting into their flesh. Blood leaks out of the crates, staining the floors — yet no screams ever emerge, not with the first blade and not with the tenth.
"The gods chose not you alone, though you might be a favored son," she says, taking off his helmet with a firm tug, and then setting it down to the side as she holds her hand over his eyes to continue her healing. "They’ve chosen all of us to be, Brother Aurin."
The ground shakes beneath his back, his ruptured armor cutting into his torso with its broken flanges as the quake moves him.
The sons and daughters of the crusade are the sons and daughters of the heavens themselves. They are chosen by the gods to protect the gift of life that they have created, so that all future generations to come might experience the world in the purity that the heavens have designed for it to have. Yet some children are always favored above the rest. While all of them are crusaders in name and many of them are crusaders in heart and body, only a few carry the title in their souls. It is etched into their being, the fires of zeal and heavenly favor.
And like how a parent who must choose between two children to save one, will make horrific decisions that defy the realms of common logic, so too will the gods intervene to save their most favored children — even from one another.
Aurin rolls his head to the side, her palm gliding over his face as he looks at a crate nearby, the blood-soaked wood rattling, shaking, as something inside of it moves — as a favored son, brought to the end of life prior to their destiny, in returned to the world by the god who has favored them — a grand-crusader is a manipulation of fate and heaven’s desires. It is a direct way to beseech the gods for mercy and power, for they will always intervene if one tries to take one of their most precious things from them.
— The wood cracks, the edges of the box splinter as a cascade of auroral light radiates from the inside of the container, the pressure of it building until the wood shatters in a violent burst, sending splinters and blades flying out in all directions as the thing that was inside emerges, no longer man or woman, but something far, far above that base state — a transcendent being, employed by the heavens.
His arm, held behind the priestess’ back, flops down uselessly, covered in the sharp splinters that had pierced it from the explosion.
She looks down at it and back at him, sighing, before mindlessly tearing them out with mercy and throwing them to the side.
"I told you to stay your place," reprimands the priestess, showing no kindness for his aid that came at disobedience against her orders as she roughly returns to her work, as the chamber around them is filled with a glow brighter than any he has ever seen, the very air around them quivering as if electrified.
The enemy seraphim, its thousands of eyes scanning the situation, takes fresh aim at the new combatants.
And fails to fire a single shot before one hundred lances of divine glory skewer it from all sides, propelled forward by creatures with wings and armor of gold that are too bright to look at without going blind.
She covers his eyes again, and his vision goes dark.
| WATER CHANNELS CLOGGED BY MYSTERIOUS SUBSTANCE A strange phenomenon has been causing chaos and disruption for citizens and city officials alike. A series of critical water channels that run throughout the city have been clogged by a mysterious substance, causing blockages and overflow in many areas. Local authorities are baffled by the substance, which appears to be a thick and viscous liquid with a black hue. It clings stubbornly to the walls of the channels and is proving to be resistant to all conventional means of removal. City engineers have been working tirelessly to identify the cause of the blockages and to clear the channels. However, progress has been slow due to the stubbornness of the substance and the sheer amount of water channels that need to be inspected and cleaned. The situation has become particularly dire for the citizens of the poorer districts, who rely on the water channels for their daily needs such as washing and cooking. Many of these citizens have been forced to resort to alternative water sources, which are often contaminated and pose a risk to their health. City officials are urging citizens to remain patient as they work to resolve the issue. Meanwhile, investigations into the nature of the mysterious substance are ongoing, with magical researchers and experts from around the nation being called in to assist. As of now, the cause of the clogging remains a mystery, however there is a clear lead that is being followed. |
~ Local news print from the Western Mountain City on a series of clogged water runways that are filled with a strange, oily substance and, oddly enough, mutilated toy sheep
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
There isn’t that much time left.
It doesn’t matter how far the crusade pushes; it doesn’t matter what Witch Perchta concocts in her latest scheme for revenge; the game is already close to ending.
Isaiah stands there, staring up towards the heavens, which come ever closer — not the heavens of the physical domain, which are impossible to reach no matter how high the tower grows, but rather the heavens of the spiritual — true heaven, where the gods reside. Once it is there, once the tower reaches the apex of its height at three hundred floors, the clock strikes midnight, and the final core activates, the barrier will be broken and the veil that separates both dominions from one another will be slashed open, letting in the light of the new day that is Isaiah.
The gods will see what their hubris, their indifference, what it has led to when it arrives at their precipice, crashing open the incorporeal gates of the palaces of kings of old.
Then, when all has been set right above, so too can the world below begin to heal. All of this nonsense, all of this destruction, carnage and senseless waste of the goodness of life can come to a stop. The people of the tower can live in peace for the rest of their days, as can all of those other kind souls around the world who wish for nothing more than to be free of the tyranny of the wicked and uncaring.
It will usher in a new age, a golden age that unites the brotherhoods and sisterhoods of all races in this world, guiding them into a future of untold prosperity and growth.
Nothing is going to stop it.
| ~ [New Area Added] ~ |
| The Whispering Precipice |
| Floor 190 |
| A strange, distant corner of the spirit world, to which no doors have led to for aeons. Now, however, one has appeared. |
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Dragonslayer} |
| Location: The Sub-Tower of Isaiah, Floor -10 |
He’s going to put a stop to it.
Aurin clutches his bleeding chest, the metal of the breastplate torn and mangled, folded against his own body like the edges of ripped paper — the fringes cutting into him as he moves.
The sword, chipped and marred with grime and blood, shines in the glow of thousands of spells, coming together to form a whole radiance amidst the battlefield. However, it isn’t just that, not in his eyes. The shine of hundreds of spells, bursts of damaging rays and soft auras of healing waves, is proof of the worthiness of the continued existence of life.
It pushes.
— He pushes, spit binds his teeth together as he charges forward, towards the challenger, the blade of the dragonslayer leaving trails of vapor behind itself as if it were cutting through water.
The corrupted seraphim, a creature with thousands of wings and just as many arms, holds its bows — half the number — at the ready and fires another volley of arrows their way. The pinpricks of light originating in its impossibly comprehensible presence forming the pinpricks of stars in the sky for only a brief second before the world around him is full of cutting, sharp things that press past his armor, past his sword, and past his body — Those that go through any of the former, he ignores.
— Push.
The blade cuts through the air, through the beast, filling the sky with the fall of feathers, which rain like virgin snow down all around them.
A wing strikes, clapping against him, sending him hurtling down towards the ground below, where he comes to a graceless crash, tumbling over himself and his sword. Aurin lays there, his raspy breath pushing his chest up off of the ground that his palm presses against, his knee adding pressure to the stones as he tries to pull himself up again.
Push.
The world pushes against him, however, and Aurin falls over, panting for breath that doesn’t come to him. The man flops over onto his back, looking down at his body, which has been pierced in too many places to count. Air doesn’t allow itself to be controlled by his functions anymore, floating mockingly around him but never letting him breathe a breath of it.
Push.
Aurin wheezes, trying to get up again, as he stares at the glowing entity above him, still in the fight that the others continue without him.
— But his body doesn’t push, despite his mind’s will for it to do so.
The man falls back down, unable to resist the weight of the universe. His eyes burn with a heat that, however, fails to transfer from his never-dying soul.
"Stay your place," says a voice to his side. Aurin turns his gaze, looking at a sister priestess kneeling down over him, her form obscuring his hunter’s gaze on his prey. She holds her hands against his chest.
"Move," says Aurin, trying to reach his enemy that she is blocking him from seeing.
The priestess places a hand against him, violently shoving him back down to the stones, before returning to her healing. "Stay your place, brother Aurin," she reprimands, as the magic of her channeled spell washes over his wounded body. "We’ll handle it from here," she says.
"No," replies Aurin, his eyes narrowing. "I can do more. It’s not necessarily."
"What is not necessary is your death," she remarks, pressing her hands against his wounds, causing a pulse of nausea and pain to move through him. She does so, not within the extent of her mercy, but to present to him his lack of choice in the matter, reprimanding him with the tool of pain as one would do to a beast. "We still have need of you yet."
The seraphim readies another volley of magical arrows above them.
"Move!" rasps Aurin, reaching up and grabbing her to push her out of the way.
His head rings, his vision blurring only enough for him to identify the small fist moving away from his face seconds after striking it.
"Stay your place," she repeats, shaking out her hand, before returning to her task of healing.
Thousands of arrows cut through the arena, falling down towards them like meteors from the failing principality of the night sky.
— Dozens of prismatic, magical barriers appear between them, the arrows shattering against the glass shields which hover in the area, managing to break through some, but not all of them.
However, those priests who used their own spells to protect them, remained defenseless themselves, many of them cut down in an instant by the volley.
"This is why we’re here, Brother Aurin," she reminds him.
A horn blows as the volley ends, signaling the start of the true crusade.
Hundreds of heavy crashes ring out around the arena as large, wooden crates are set down against the stone floors, the cargo inside having never been removed since the day they left the central-city weeks ago.
Swords rise up into the air, held back in straight angles, before being pressed into the wood that is filled with their own brothers and sisters, cutting into their flesh. Blood leaks out of the crates, staining the floors — yet no screams ever emerge, not with the first blade and not with the tenth.
"The gods chose not you alone, though you might be a favored son," she says, taking off his helmet with a firm tug, and then setting it down to the side as she holds her hand over his eyes to continue her healing. "They’ve chosen all of us to be, Brother Aurin."
The ground shakes beneath his back, his ruptured armor cutting into his torso with its broken flanges as the quake moves him.
The sons and daughters of the crusade are the sons and daughters of the heavens themselves. They are chosen by the gods to protect the gift of life that they have created, so that all future generations to come might experience the world in the purity that the heavens have designed for it to have. Yet some children are always favored above the rest. While all of them are crusaders in name and many of them are crusaders in heart and body, only a few carry the title in their souls. It is etched into their being, the fires of zeal and heavenly favor.
And like how a parent who must choose between two children to save one, will make horrific decisions that defy the realms of common logic, so too will the gods intervene to save their most favored children — even from one another.
Aurin rolls his head to the side, her palm gliding over his face as he looks at a crate nearby, the blood-soaked wood rattling, shaking, as something inside of it moves — as a favored son, brought to the end of life prior to their destiny, in returned to the world by the god who has favored them — a grand-crusader is a manipulation of fate and heaven’s desires. It is a direct way to beseech the gods for mercy and power, for they will always intervene if one tries to take one of their most precious things from them.
— The wood cracks, the edges of the box splinter as a cascade of auroral light radiates from the inside of the container, the pressure of it building until the wood shatters in a violent burst, sending splinters and blades flying out in all directions as the thing that was inside emerges, no longer man or woman, but something far, far above that base state — a transcendent being, employed by the heavens.
His arm, held behind the priestess’ back, flops down uselessly, covered in the sharp splinters that had pierced it from the explosion.
She looks down at it and back at him, sighing, before mindlessly tearing them out with mercy and throwing them to the side.
"I told you to stay your place," reprimands the priestess, showing no kindness for his aid that came at disobedience against her orders as she roughly returns to her work, as the chamber around them is filled with a glow brighter than any he has ever seen, the very air around them quivering as if electrified.
The enemy seraphim, its thousands of eyes scanning the situation, takes fresh aim at the new combatants.
And fails to fire a single shot before one hundred lances of divine glory skewer it from all sides, propelled forward by creatures with wings and armor of gold that are too bright to look at without going blind.
She covers his eyes again, and his vision goes dark.
