After an exhaustive period of playing with the produced mud dolls, exhausted by the effort, the Architect, a denizen of its kind rested or rather yielded its own consciousness for a length focusing on the sparkling Polaris. A breathing of stillness and meditation enveloped its form. While it lay still, so deep even as death may die, it yielded its spirit in a way. Held as a infinite hostage, separated from its body, its crown encased and body intact, impervious to time and torrents of the natural or physical forces inflictions.
The Oduum, even their disavowed as the Architect is, are clumsy and short-sighted lenders of creative spirit. The continuum is primarily made up of this the substance of creative order chafing the dynamic torrents of chaos, this friction resides in all things that can remeasured in what is living. While a god such as this slumbers, the twisting wrestling energies did not let the creature have peace.
It dreamt of a battlefield on some alien green plain and as the dream unveiled itself, so this dimension took on substance in the fertile land of dream. The pummeled pitch was torn, turned-up and ravaged from the forgotten faction’s onslaught towards one another. Front on front conflict, the stillness in the air still held the cries of thousands. The spires of spent ballistic cartridge, the fumes of charred mortal items clung all around as the fog of war and panic subsided and a haze, a nothing miasma of deathly spirits hovered over all of the broken bodies. The prize, the flag to be taken was unknown to the Architect, lost was the reason for such havoc, and it furrowed its brow and further burdened its unresting mind in the sight.
It hovered above, peering at the bodies, twisted and torn. Faces bloodied and horrified in frozen masks of agony. Limbs and flesh rended by lacerating metals, bludgeoned by broken axe-handle, scorched by the magicks of the air or kiln of hate. It wondered what the hate was for? The great head shook back and forth, unconsciously trying to surface from this deep and soured water well ill-fantasy, its vapors poisoning the comatose convalescence. Come up from beneath the dark waters of nightmare and breathe not this dank of deathly dread.
The terra tore upon itself and separated, yawned, and a great chasm in the bloodied yard did manifest as it wrestled for consciousness, away, AWAY and awaken from this place of damnable demise. As the plates pulled from one another, the final combatants could be seen, if not for many leagues between them. From the complimenting rises, the two knew they were the last of their tribes and the deciders of the day’s victor. So our Architect settled back in, thrashing ceased and took in the latest development.
The Scry unfurled the altar cloth and sat crosslegged. He knew the warlord remained, of course he did, for he could divine such things from crystal, from water and from other various objects. The cloth was wrapped about him, as comfortable as the shemagh that remained, the robes once silken from a forgotten ceremony with an aegis blessing before the battle, tatters disfigured from the ceaseless carelessness of time. The magi took the tarot and began to shuffle, chanting softly to the cards as his hands prepared the craft rhythmically as mesmerizingly to the unprepared and ignorant. The soft fluttering accelerated and was pleasant to hone the somatic gesturing to. While the arena of conflict was fresh with strife and lost souls still clung to the vapors, the craft could be intensified from the many, many losses. His foe had better be sure footed against one such as him.
The opponent was not as plainly dressed. The titanic warrior astride the octo-equine had known countless battles together, the armor was scathed and dented, but had not known fail. The champion, halberd’a shaft unbroken and at the ready, the plumage under the head, soiled and tattered being another ill-recalled ensign. The Soloist alone, with nothing but the steed beneath his loin would know another victory, he steeled his mind to it. Clicking his tongue, he manipulated the stirrup and sought the best place to cross and meet with his final foe.
Shuffling and humming, the mantric motion a whirligig of figures calling eternity and sacred geometry. The tarot of fates was a last resort armament, the only one the Scry had left, but it was a deadly device indeed. He called into them, his summons and murmured language deep in his throat. His focus, the breathe of acrid smoke of the bloodied and marred field. His will unyielding to the impending martial threat. Every card drawn and acknowledged by the master would unleash powerful energies and summon primal forces to ward him. Heavy would be the purse to account for the tarot’s art, but this was indeed to be the finale, seventy and eight to decide the Scry’s fate.
The Scry spied the opponent’s mount great leap, a mighty burst of musculature from beneath the blanket and armor. The mage drew one: ironically, The Magician. The robed one smiled and conjured the card’s gift, manifesting an orb the size of the beast’s belly, white hot and furious in flame. Flung from the outstretched arm, a word of power said with confident zeal as the comet rushed to it’s target to be met at the very peak of the vault. The spent tarot withered, the color of the old ink spent and dissipated to dust before it even contacted the altar cloth. The tarot’s magician knows not he is a fool though, only the Fool knows that and to put one’s faith solely in the craft to solve a problem is a foolish venture indeed. The card’s craft was but an illusion, a great one, but the sphere of fire met it’s mark and passed harmlessly through.
Harmlessly, but the rider and ridden were indeed shaken by the sight. The eight-legged horse doubted and faltered, nearly missing the landing parapet, fortunately six of the eight hooves gouged the soil and the warrior felt himself lucky to not have been soiled himself! “Halt these arcane illusions, mongrel and you shall know a swift death in dignity!”, the voice rang clear and true from beneath the helm’s visor. The solo warrior, stood tall and reclaimed his air for a bit while awaiting a response.
“Rider, your day is lost and your mind is brought with wretched weakness knowing it cannot match my power!”, another card flipped and turned up, the three cup maidens greeted the Scry’s senses bringing him instant joy and relief, albeit relatively useless, unless…
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“Rider, you will know great promotion and heralded a hero if you forfeit this venture! I have seen it here and….”
The mount advanced and the halberd lowered to initiate a charge.
“So be it.”
“Eight on ten furlongs ’tween that bastard and us, ‘ole Slipper. Let’s give the snake charmer a dance to remember.”, confidently the Soloist encouraged his mount. He would know glory or know death in an instant and he was unconcerned with either, there was only his focus on the task. The rush of wind in his beard, the might of the beat of hooves beating at the marred ground, the dodge of masses, be it abandoned armaments, the odd defeated ballista or the rare black powder keg cannon, fallen women and men that were defending or raging against one another, the lines met and clashed as chaos and order do. Chaos triumphs in war, it is what war is at its core: there’s an orderly plan of attack until the first stone or arrow or metal rings upon the armor. When the enemy is so close that you can smell his rage, all returns to chaos.
The Scry had time and the shuffle continued again, the tempest and arrangement flew out in front of him in a rhythmic breathing motion, like the honey-bobble bugs leaving the queen’s audience to hump at the flowers. It was an undulating, breathing dance of arcane sigils in blurring from one to the next. The dealer of chance drew-up again, and the image was of the ferryman taking their passenger across still waters, the six of swords, a positive water omen! The mage capitalized on the opportunity and surged waters from sky, land and fallen bodies alike, chanting as he concentrated joyously on the craft, “tempest, tempest, TEMPEST!”.
The Soloist saw the wall rising and the cyclone funnels bend their spires down to branch off from the wall of water, mud and waste. His chest leapt in the horrific realization that the monster construct was no mere illusion this time, it was fusing from the waters and remnants that contained water from all around. He saw the animation pull-up the bodies in violent upsurges, these would fall upon themselves and water devil, a thing homunculus of natural forces took shape and the cyclone spires reached out for him in his charge. Bold indeed to charge the titan, but foolish. The warrior instead steered his ride to a wide button hook, veering to the port and ultimately reversing their course. Wide so the vile practitioner-trixter could see the maneuver, wide so that his mighty warmare would not break stride and lose too much speed - for the element rager was closing hastily and building momentum and volume as it went. It was both of these that the warrior was counting on.
The aquas-colossus surged an undertow to grab at the horse’s flanks, the reach was unlimited and the passenger steered his ride this way and that in random pitches and darts. Almost there, almost back to the chasm, almost to where… the vault may be successful. The horse launched itself early, all on instinct and perhaps a bit of cognition, ankle had been snared affecting the pitch, but the warrior was united with brave familiar, sensed the water-fiend’s grasp and was prepared with an equal counter-offensive. The vorpal halberd rang out, attractively glinting upon the apex of the arc across the abyss, he spun it once in a wide swathe and effectively severed the tendril’s hold. The pair made the jump again, just barely and turned in time to see the monster’s inertia play against itself. The water could not break itself, it could once fall over the side, cascading in a long sheet beautifully into the depths far below.
The Scry, wearied from the effort and focus expended huffed and spat. His aged mind dragged his focus-up, girding it, for he had seen battle too many times to let seeds of doubt cloud his will’s periphery. He took breath and continued his deadly game of chance, each flip an opportunity, even though each round cost him more and more, such was the price for such a marvelous relic. The tarot was enchanted with the most dire of craft, many evenings were spent between the Scry and it. Reading after reading, a solitary conversation in sufferable silence ‘tween it and he, for it had many masters and ergo had supped upon many foolish souls beguiled by its treachery. The deck was an absolute last resort, a hazard upon the very life force that borrowed its enchantments, only borrow for each played card had a price. The Scry had drawn the Empress card of the major arcana, her face calm in victory while the war waged all around her. Her eyes demanded absolute authority and diplomatic certainty, so he borrowed her voice.
“Warrior, how long must we remain in contest. We are both victors at these feats, but certainly you need not maintain. Turn from this and I will do as well. Tell what is left of your battlements, your throne that you serve that you are the victor for there is none present to contest your claim. The voices, other than mine and thine are broken and lost in the zephyrical cries. Theirs are replaced with the clang of shield and sword, the cleave of flesh failed, of prayers to our old, old forgotten gods we beseech to bless our blade. Warrior, the day is spent and surely you won’t chance another hurdle over the dire obstacle, I have formidable powers at my call and eventually your skill will fail, fortune will stray and your poise will falter. Do not conquest for a lord that isn’t present here and sups within the walls of safety far from you. You are on your own here.”
The Soloist heard the enchanted voice all around, from his greaves to his gauntlets. They reverberated with the authority that bode him to bend the knee to the sorcerer’s supposed superiority. The voice was just another conjuring, but a powerful temptation. To be called home as the sole victor from the battle, to touch his children’s worried brows so that they can see their father’s face again and know it well. The trod across thresholds lain by his efforts, have them returned to splendor from their master’s presence. The choir would sing and the bard would write a new ballad of his name. He could be home for awhile and let his wounds heal for a bit.
But,
He withdrew his sword hand from the gauntlet, the many scars and rough spots from the labors of combat and training. Calloused and storied, if he was still with it the aching of countless clashes would set in and he would know no rest. He would ache and know only the ringing in his head, the choir would we only the cries of the conquered cursing his name from the afterlife. He was a haunted champion, the burden too great to retain sanity if he were to pause.
He turned the long fingers and adjusted the heavy ring with his family’s seal stared at him. With the hand freed, he could remove his helm all the more easily. His greyed hair fell out and his well-known eyes saw his opponent from afar, but the adversary would see his true face and know it well. This was not a horse lord riding for the glory of his lord. He was the Lord himself and his throne was the field of battle.
The Scry knew the decision and used the empress’s latent ability - she could grant a boon to ease the road for one who serves, but she could also make waste of route to her as well. The wily wielder of fire, wind and lightning made a great rise, a pillar thrust his position aloft, he ground rushed away from beneath him. The sage was now far above the battlefield’s pitch, far above the gaping gouge that separated him and the threat. It bought him a defensible position and more importantly, it afforded time.