“Once there was a Crusader, he bore no religion but one from his world not of ours. He preached not peace, he spoke not of their creed or belief, but he showed contempt to all that dare gainsay his own belief, more so to those that tried to convert him.”
- Tale of the Knight and the Sorceress, verse one.
The first lesson he had ever learned from his silver god, was that when one strikes, there must never be a single iota of strength wasted or witheld. The first strike must always be capable of sundering the countenance of an individual, able to shatter through the defenses of a foe in one mere swift blow. That was the first lesson that he bore when he all but wielded a simple blade. A lesson which he stayed true to now.
For his mace was swung with great and insane inhuman strength, which its speed being so swift that in just four heartbeats, the false Goddess before him would be struck by it upon her face. Yet much to his shock, the sound of metal impacting flesh did not resound, but instead that of metal bearing the brunt of his attack. Followed by the clear and crisp sound of something breaking into many pieces, or crumpling inwards.
In mere seconds he took in what happened. His mace swung true, almost nearing the Goddess by the fifth beating of his twin hearts, yet in that instance an individual came from behind and pushed her aside with great speed. Bearing forward a shield and sword, both of which held clear designs of holy likeness, with runic letters reeking of magic and enchantments. The individual, armored in resplendent silver and gold armor, brought aloft by four angelic wings, grunted heavily as his mace impacted the shield they carried. The shield crumpled inwards, its magic doing no good.
The individual was a handsome man, an angel of sorts, his face bearing a strange feminine quality that made him cute. With his eyes glowing gold, skin smooth and fair, and hair glowing white. All of which was soon dyed red, as Grigori in just two heart beats, drew back his mace and swung it towards the angel’s left leg. The speed surprised the angel, prompting him to try and back away, but he was far too slow than Grigori. For in an instant, Grigori’s mace hit his leg, crumpling the armor and soon burning the flesh beneath, but all met with the angel’s leg breaking into a mangled piece.
He did not even get the chance to scream, as Grigori moved forward, bearing forth his free hand into sudden grab. Clutching at the angel’s face and suddenly moving to slam him to his back, which he did so with minimal attempt in a counter to his actions. Letting him slam the angel down to his back, cracking the polished and tiled floor they stood upon, letting a crater form with the great force Grigori completed his actions.
The angel could only react with puking out blood, his once fair face covered in blood, with his body unable to move due to the insane trauma Grigori dealt upon him. All of this occurred in just a few moments, lending the Gods that watched it unfold a shocked expression. Yet their expression of shock turned to that of horror, as Grigori placed a foot upon the angel’s chest and used his free hand to pull at the nearest arm. Which was their left.
“N-No! Warrior-Lord stop please! Spare my champion, he is innocent of this! Lay your wrath upon me and not him! Spare him!” Just as he was pulling against the arm, intent at dismembering it from the angel, the Goddess spoke, fear and utter desperation laced her voice. It was akin to a mother’s desperation, one that did not want their child hurt.
Yet at the same time, it was akin to a lover’s unwilling to let the one they hold dearest to suffer any more. Neither made him stop nor gave him pause, but both gave fuel to his anger that was merely smoldering. Now it was turning into a conflagration, as he stared upon the Goddess. His dour grey mask, one depicting a stylized face of utter contempt and judgement, was what the Goddess would see now. What she would remember upon this day, as he savagely pulled the angel’s arm.
One thug was not enough, but it drew a loud sickening snap, alongside that of chainmail and armor breaking. Followed by the angel screaming in utter agony, only for him to begin choking upon his blood.
“NO!” She screamed, tears falling now upon her face as she flew towards them, only stopped by even more angels who glared at Grigori. They could not risk her being attacked by him, not even when her champion was in deep pain. Though no satisfaction came to Grigori, no enjoyment, only that of hate. For these were heretics, false gods, demons and ill-spirits. They were worthy of nothing more than contempt.
With another thug, Grigori tore the angel’s arm free. Letting blood burst from the arm and the stump upon where the arm was formerly attached to. Without much thought he threw the arm away, and brought his foot stomping down upon the bleeding angel. This sundered his chestplate, caving it inwards and even drawing another scream from the angel, but now it was weak, barely audible. This despite all the training Grigori held, it made him smile, for it showed they were weak and without will.
This level of pain was nothing, at least to that of a Warrior-Lord of his Order. This reinforced his belief that they were heretics, for only those that believed in false Gods were so weak. Though as he pondered that, an attack came from both of his sides, then behind this he knew for his senses told him of it. His own powers welling up as he reacted to it, bearing forth his mace and arm to meet the attacks head on.
It was an attack that surely even he could not hope to defend against all. But they were wrong, as he met the first strike to his side by bearing his mace to strike against the weapon, which was a spear that soon had its blade broken. Then without missing a beat he swiftly spun around, bearing his mace to strike the attacker from behind him with his other hand moving to meet the other strike, showing his ability as he stopped a broadsword and another sword respectively.
His attackers were not angels however, they were three different individuals. One of the false gods he mused. One was a warrior, a savage barbarian with bronze skin, bearing a grand spear, another was lithe and graceful elven warrior, with the last being a surprisingly smiling priestess. This did not matter, as he continued to act moments after blocking their strikes.
With grand savagery and confidence, he struck out, lashing outwards with his mace in deft but weighty blows. Merged with that of the holy flame that burned eternally upon the brazier of his mace, fueled by his faith and will. Yet most of all he moved with the sacrosanct magic of his kith, manifesting wordlessly as bursts of flame around his body, or that of strange ghostly apparitions that synced with his relentless attack.
The false gods that faced him found it relatively easy to avoid his attacks, for he needed to not only strike against them, but defend from three of them all at the same time. It left some holes upon his defense, but one he made up for with his seemingly unreasonable penchant for quickly shifting his attention to another of them.
He was a true warrior, a true god of his Order. He fought in such a manner that drew pause even to his enemies, with each clash sundering either their weapons or their armor, with Grigori merely gaining rents upon his form that he paid little heed to. Death was a possibility he had long forgotten, a thing of the past he no longer cared for. But for them, the way they acted, they feared it with every waking breath.
The first to fall to his onslaught was the barbarian, his weapon torn into two, with his bronze skin seared black by the flames of his mace. Though his death was not clean or short, for Grigori swiftly gripped upon his dying form, and used his form as a shield against a strike from the elf, whose eyes grew wide upon what he did.
The next to fall was the priestess, whose comely face was shattered and bashed inwards by a swift strike, after breaking through her guard and soon immolated by his flame.
The last was the elf, who fell not by blade or magic, but by strangulation. Done so when Grigori moved forward, mere seconds after having squashed the priestess’s head, breaking through his guard with a jab with his mace, only for him to soon grip at the elf’s neck with his hand. Which he then strangled and snapped with little care.
All of these occurred in just mere minutes, a quick fight which seemed to have dragged on for Grigori. The effect of his fight however, of his seemingly overwhelming victory showed in the fearful expression of the other Gods. There were some that clearly were either warriors or mages, ones with the look and feel to do battle with him. Yet all they held now was hesitation and fear, most of all weighted down by regret of bringing him here upon their domain.
This he did not care for, Grigori merely answered to the call for slaughter against them. In mere seconds after, he engaged another, intent at slaughtering every single one of them. For they were falsities that could only be corrected by blood and fire. Yet just as he reached his next target, a Goddess that bore resemblance to a beautiful siren, he felt the coming of a blade to his side.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
He reacted near instantly, bringing his mace downwards to block before retaliating with an overhead swing, with the same intensity as his first strike. Yet he did not hit anything, merely shattering air and throwing a gust of air towards where he thought his opponent was.
Instead it seems to have been a bid to gain his attention, and there he saw the Goddess again. Crying mournfully as she cradled the broken form of the angel he first engaged. The Goddess was wailing, cradling the angel lovingly and truly sorrowfully. It was a sight often spoken in legends and myths, that of a loving Goddess mourning her love, or greatest champion. One that moved poets and readers alike for its many meanings.
But such a meaning was lost to Grigori, he did not care, he couldn’t and wouldn’t. For all he saw was targets, and he moved forward. Intent at lunging forward and bringing his face to shatter the Goddess’s skull. For they were heretics, all of them, which deserved no consideration but that of death. Such single minded fury compelled him forward, only bolstered by his faith and zeal.
In truth, there was little reason he did this. Little justification aside from his faith and mindless belief. For this was all he knew, all he shall ever do, and all he shall ever be. The Harrow, a god of his order’s past. A Deus that he knew to be scorned by the many younger Deus of his order.
Once more he didn’t care, not even the sudden thought of such a thing stopping him from his move. Yet something was strange, different now, and soon it showed. In the way that the earth below him cracked and fell, swallowing him with it.
This still did not stop him, as he moved and used every ounce of his magic to try and get back up, just as when his fall was truly happening. Though he couldn’t, instead his body was pushed downwards by a sudden surge of angels, all of which were howling in utter fury.
“Monster!” “Murderer!” “Daemon!” “Fiend!” “Kinslayer!”
He heard them cry those words out unto him, making his descent downwards more annoying as he began to instead bear his rage against them. He swathed them with his mace, hitting and stabbing, intent at killing them just as surely as he was to die now when he hit what was below. Though as he was taken by his need to kill the manifold angels that rushed him downwards, the world around him changed.
Previously it was akin to a dreamlike rotunda, a grand cathedral of marble and an amphitheater all the same. Now he was no longer there, as he fell through blue skies and white clouds, with the sight above bearing that of a grand portal-like whirlwind that swirled with golden light and clouds. With at its center uncannily showing the sobbing features of the Goddess, almost as if someone wanted to make him guilt for his actions.
But he only cared for the slaughter of the angels that rushed him. The cleansing of the heretics, the falsities and the abominations. Even when he was falling from such a grand height. His hate occupied him like a poison, and he wouldn’t have cared either way
-
It was not wrong to assume that a large portal-like opening in the sky would be noticed by many, more so when it was that of golden light and clouds. With a horde of angels flowing downwards unto a single armored man, akin to a parable of ancient old. Where one who sinned greatly was to be punished to fall, to fall without grace and honor, beset by his kindred of old. One that many poets and philosophers would cite for generations to come.
Though this sudden opening came into existence directly above the Sedisian Badlands, one predominantly ruled by Dragons and their draconian ilk, with both subspecies of trolls and orcs living within its varied settings. It was a very diverse place, with a very tenuous balance between all that lived there, as none could truly fight with the Dragons, save the greatest of champions, or the Gods themselves.
That balance however was to be broken now, as directly below the epicenter of the large holy opening upon the heavens, fell a gilded man. A gilded man who tore at the angels that come upon him, causing many to fall and impact the ground with grand speeds. Whilst he himself fought and fought, nary a care upon falling.
This many saw, from the Dragons that flew, to even the fell shamans of the trolls and orcs. They saw it unfold, and many felt a deep burning chill caress their spines, as the gilded man slaughtered without end. With even the fall of his creating a crater, it did not stop him. He stood once more and engaged all that would fight him, lashing out with such a berserk fury that the angels had little hope.
Scores upon scores of them were snuffed out, torn asunder by blunt trauma or strange magics. Yet their perpetrator, whose face was that of a grey mask of dour judgement, expressed little noise. Silent like a reaper tending to his quarry. He was inhuman and unrelenting, wrought in both berserker and righteous fury that brought fear to those that saw him.
For the Angels were no ordinary foes, they were the tools of the Mother Goddess, the saviors, the avenging kin, those who slew Dragons to save the innocent, those who aided mortals in their righteous paths. Yet they died easily against this masked individual, falling like mortals against a demigod. Which was enough of a cautionary warning that many Dragons, and the trolls and orcs that saw this to shy away. To warn their kindred of this, to speak of a single being that slaughtered angels without pause.
Though there was one individual, an effeminate orc scorned for his capabilities in magic. He did not see the masked one, but he could hear his thoughts, he could feel his being and it drew him to this individual. His petite and barely muscled form moved without thought, as his own mind was beset by the voice of this god as he fought.
He was a god slaughtering heretics.
He was a god that saw no end to his purpose.
He was a god that was lonely, forced on only by madness.
He was a god, and he would damn the Gods of this world for their falsities.
He was a god, a god that hated.
But those thoughts were not spoken openly, the god did not speak their language, and those thoughts were not of the mind, but of the soul. The magus felt it, the loneliness and the encroaching darkness within this individual, and he was drawn to it, for he felt something similar within himself. Compelled by the sudden desire to help this man, this warrior he did not even know nor see.
Though he heard it clearly, the death screams of the angels, the sound of magic and the sundering of armor, it resounded clearly inwards into the forest, coming from one of the plains of his home. This didn't stop him, as it only forced him to move forward. Even when a part of him knew why he moved forward, why he chose to answer this sudden whim within himself.
It was because he was scorned by his people, scorned for being different, scorned for being half of their kind. This was a chance of salvation, a chance of difference and a new life, even if it would lead to death. Yet he followed, moved and began to run, to the god to the god that hated, to the one that saw all others that worshipped another religion as heretical.
He ran to Grigori, and upon passing by the last scores of trees, he came upon the large plains, only to see Grigori himself standing and strangling an angel, doing so with red eyes that burned with the hatred of a thousand souls.
“Denounce your Goddess, denounce her and you will live.” He said, with the magus understanding the words even when it was the first time had heard it.
“Never.” The angel replied, to which Grigori replied by immolating the being without a thought. Only for him to throw away the burning body, and drawing his sight to the Magus that had just arrived.