POV Warmeister Geckodo
Geckodo howled as he saw his targets in the distance. They stood triumphant over some other invaders and his blood seethed as he took in their arrogant stances. He would show the Dungeon how a real F*@#ErrorN fought. He fought through the pain of the thoughts rushing through his head, thoughts long denied his kind. They were Fallen, and the god's-blood no longer acknowledged them. Well, Geckodo would force it to.
There was no pausing and posturing where both sides sized each other up before engaging in combat. There was only a closing of the distance and a brutal clash. Geckodo felt his fangs and claws enlarge before he threw himself at the central figure. His warriors went after the other two but he was unable to keep track of them. His opponent required all of his years of experience and savagery. They were a whirlwind of fur and blood as they flashed from place to place. The template would fade into shadow at times to disengage but the Warmeister would simply follow the blood to where it would reappear before engaging again.
He kept on the smaller creature, his mouth ever braying for more blood. His claws left gashes and his fangs drank from its Aether-rich blood. It was strong, this template, but it was no Warmeister of the Blood. As far as he had Fallen, Geckodo felt more and more like his old self as he fought this fake illusion. The creature darted around leaping off of shadows and empowering its strikes but Geckodo shrugged off the worst of it, relying on his powers to heal him.
That changed however when the last of his warriors fell. He sensed it, like a shifting tide on the far north sea. One by one they were defeated until he could sense the other two templates charging him. They were weakened from the battle but not enough. He growled low in his throat and delved deeper into his instincts. They came quickly and attacked simultaneously, darting around him like wolves on a bear. He dodged what he couldn’t block but more and more strikes hit, his greater size now plaguing him. The fakes were flagging as well but there were three of them and their powers made them especially suited to the frenetic shifting pace of the battle.
Geckodo’s flanks dripped with blood from numerous gashes in his hide and his regeneration could no longer keep up with the frequency of his wounds. He began to pant even as he scored his own wounds on his opponents. The remainder of the fight was quick and brutal, ending with him gasping for air through lungs filling with blood. He staggered as one of the fakes pulled their claws from his chest. He went to one knee and struggled to breathe. This. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Even kneeling he towered above them. He looked down at the three templates and took in their sorry states. He had almost done it. He could have proven his people’s worth to the Dungeon and the gods both.
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He continued to glare at the three as the central creature raised its claws once more. No. He was Warmeister of the Fallen. He could not fail. Not now. He let out a gurgling roar and swiped his claw out at them forcing them away. He staggered upright and focused all his willpower on making his mangled vocal cords work.
“By…Blood…I…Am…Reborn!”
As the last notes of his roar faded, he could feel the shift inside as the old magic tried to ignite. It sparked, twisted Aether gushing forth in waves and radiating off of his body. Even as it did so something snapped. Geckodo howled in pain as his insides shattered and were remade. He watched as the magic latched onto his fallen warriors and stripped them of blood and bone. He watched as the tide of gore flooded into him, remaking him into something else. His mind strengthened even as it cracked under the strain of the magic. He grew in size and then his body condensed the extra mass into hard muscle but the pain never left him.
The false templates were not idle during this time. They continued to dart in and claw at his new form but their strikes had a harder time breaking through. He cackled madly and lurched forward with a speed that shocked even him. It was more by luck than anything else that he was able to hit the creature but when he did it rocketed away from him and slammed into the wall of the Dungeon with a crunch. He laughed again as more Aether filled his blood and body. His eyes crackled as he began the slaughter.
POV The High Spirits
“Well, that is not good,” Ile’Fen stated dryly as Trik’Weri nodded in agreement beside him. Trik’Weri looked at the letters that were emblazoned next to the creature, lit in the same manner as the system they had built for the Divine Cores.
Shattered Avatar of the Fallen Shard - (Fallen - Unique Legendary)
“Yes, not good indeed,” Trik’Weri muttered. He sent out a call to his other brothers and sisters so they would be aware of the issue. “We may need to intervene after all. I did not expect there to be any surviving Fallen with the ability to do this.”
“Neither did I brother,” Ile’Fen responded. “Regardless there may be opportunity here.” At Trik’Weri’s raised eyebrow, Ile’Fen continued. “Conflict breeds opportunity and that soul is conflicted at its very heart. Valterra may gain something tremendous from the resolution of that conflict. We shall see.” Having said his piece he turned to gaze into the pool once more and Trik’Weri followed suit, each of them lost in their own thoughts.