Post by relentless on Sept 13, 2017 10:39:01 GMT -8
Doom Slayer
“In the first age, in the first battle.
When the shadows first lengthened, one stood…
Burned by the embers of Armageddon, his soul blistered by the fires of hell.
And tainted beyond ascension, he chose the path of perpetual torment.”
“For he alone was the Hellwalker, the unchained predator,
Who sought retribution in all quarters, dark and light, fire and ice, the beginning and the end.
And he hunted the slaves of Doom with barbarous cruelty;
For he passed through the divide as none but demon had before…”
“And those that tasted the bite of his sword named him…”
“Doomslayer.”
When the shadows first lengthened, one stood…
Burned by the embers of Armageddon, his soul blistered by the fires of hell.
And tainted beyond ascension, he chose the path of perpetual torment.”
“For he alone was the Hellwalker, the unchained predator,
Who sought retribution in all quarters, dark and light, fire and ice, the beginning and the end.
And he hunted the slaves of Doom with barbarous cruelty;
For he passed through the divide as none but demon had before…”
“And those that tasted the bite of his sword named him…”
“Doomslayer.”
ACT I – Bounty Hunt
Tranquillity, a sense of serenity to wash over the senses. Wondrous, really, the thrill of life pulsing with every heart beat from every man, woman and child that remained standing upon the fields of North England. Though this was a time of metal, of bloodshed, war and other damnable things, there was still time to respite, to heal ourselves from the shadows that always remain out of reach to discover. To understand.
For some, they would rip and tear these ‘things’ upon grazing against the leather skin of such monstrosities that resided down there in the pit…
The year was 1464, where America remains undiscovered from the world and the Ottoman empire thriving as per usual. In some areas, things were slightly more technologically advanced with the use of gear machinery being employed in everyday life. However, in most areas, things remained in the medieval society and general state of mind. Progression was slow, a great and worrisome war between Germany and France had become an affliction with the land, disturbing great entities, and ushering out a new age.
An age of madness, an age where children are taken from their sleep and pulled into the night, only for their remains to be found in the morning stripped clean of flesh, with bone bare. Strange, otherworldly creatures had been discovered along the coast of Cumbria, once a land of fertile soil and beautiful landscape, though now it’s been formed and shaped into a malignant marsh where criminals and mutants reside. Though a small guild, a religious one that seemed to remain unafflicted by the taint of the humanity and the unknown, one that placed itself on a high horse for a duty no one would take seriously, nor go under the guilds banner for the sake of sanity.
Hellwalkers, that’s what the locals called them. Mercenary knights or holy warriors fallen from grace filled the roster, and those that lived long enough to see them. To see it. A realm far below the plains of man, veils of lava slinked across the umbral plains, soot clouding around the atmosphere of such a foul place, and the scampering of foul, unnatural creatures. They harboured hate in their eyes, however, a pang of fear could be seen in how they moved and reacted, startled. A phobia had run amuck in this world, forced by a singular prophet of violent retribution, and unending suffering brought about by a time that faded into obscurity.
In the steps of this ‘prophet’, a nobleman fallen from honour, disregarded by his noble house had taken up arms in this guild long ago. His name was Eyrim, the man’s face marred by an unnatural burn that sunk to the bone, warping the left side of his face. A loner, separated from the remaining others, who sharpened his sword alone and hammered out the dents in his plate armour in silence. For he had seen things no other man should see, even more than what his guild mates had encountered.
Shadows forever dance across the Hellwalkers gaze, not ones of illusion, but visions of a translucent veil ticking at his mind, driving him mad slowly like a boiling corrosive acid burning through a slab of stone. Sparks fuel his curiosity, and burning hatred, hidden beneath scarred tissue from long ago. Every strike across the fabled blade of his longsword with a weathered whetstone held within a leather embroiled grip, tight against the tools material, as feral screeches of an Imps cry, the crying of an elderly man, and a drop of blood licked across a blade of emerald grass.
The whetstone grinded harshly as it neared the end of the blade, slowing down to a silent halt, the sparks fluttering back into the dark. Reality began to sink back into the mans conscious, a waft of marsh air slinking into the man’s nostrils. Behind the man’s visor reinforced great helm, a sharp gasp permitted as he fell back into reality, the softness of the air and even the raggedness of his armour proved to be comforting. Protection both in the mind, and the body. Solace, to protect himself from the horror of Hell.
Eyrim remained sat upon a small crate of Dumbleshire ale, a poor-quality brand, though it certainly helped the mind to lose itself and forget all about the horrific horrors of life. Though Eyrim didn’t drink hard stuff, he was more of a wine person, whenever he could afford it that is. The grip upon his sword handle remained cold, rotating slow against a finely tanned stallion leather that was wrapped around the handle, a rough, tense sound of leather upon leather occurred as it was clenched tight.
“…Not t-“
Eyrim whispers were interrupted as a scuffle of goat hide sandals flapped against the cold concrete of the guilds halls, which seemed to be coming in the Hellwalkers direction. Instinctively, Eyrim raised himself like a giant finally arising from hibernation; slow and gentle, the crinkle of chainmail and rustle of his plate cuirass against the movements of the hunter. Eventually he would stand, partially slumped in a lazy manner, rolling his shoulder and rotating his neck to produce the crack of unrelaxed bone and tense muscle. Following through the Hellwalker took a couple steps to meet the unknown individual halfway. The tapping of hard leather with the crack of chain link webbing underneath the boot rang out, coming to an abrupt halt as he paused.
Rather lazily, Eyrim tossed his longsword up slightly, catching it by the middle of the blade with his leather encased gauntlet, before he held it in front of his waist with the other hand as if he were holding a woman’s purse.
“Mis-Mister Eyrim? A moment, would you?”
An old, haggard and tired voice rang out from the hallway, little more than a cough as a shuffle into the room was enough to bring light to the individual who had stumbled in. An elderly man, rare in these days with all the strange things going on. He wore dark brown linen robes, partially stained with blood, a holy healer in these parts that utilised remedies to treat Cut Rot that occurred in wounds that festered for too long in the sun. However, he also acted as the guild master, due to his religion revolving around ‘Praetorus’, with their idol of worship being that of a singular man, one of strength and rage, stood upon a pile of hellspawn corpses and fending the hordes of Hell away from Earth, keeping humanity safe once again from their mistakes.