NationStates Jolt Archive

The almost-empty halls of the Stronghold echo with footsteps. A dark figure stalks the hallways, heading purposefully for a target only it knew of. It carries itself with poise, with dignity. The figure seems unaware of the heavy armour that it wore, or of the cape that hangs listlessly around its back.


Only on second glance does figure show itself to be almost shuffling, the blackened armour reveal itself to be splattered with rust, the cape to be tattered. The figure rapidly becomes less an inspiring figure, and more a frightening one.

Briefly, the figure looks in a mirror, pulling up its helmet. What it sees is obviously alarming, because it then screams. Screams with rage and hatred, a sound that crosses planes and worlds. It then lunges forward, striking the reflective surface with one mailed fist.

Pausing, the figure listens. Whatever it hears almost frightens it, as it starts to move faster, heading for a door at the end of the hall.

One quick kick, and the door falls down, revealing a set of stairs. It's but a matter of seconds before the figure reaches its destination. And when it does, it stops once more, looking around the old familiar sights. Smelling that old smell of blood and death. Just for a moment, though, as it turns and slowly starts to walk towards a statue at the end.

A statue of the Virgin Mary. Also blood-splattered, but it is evident that its owner, whoever that was, tried to clean it. Giving a slight bow of respect, our figure pushes it aside and into a recess of the wall, before pulling out a single ruby.

The Figure holds out its hand then, and gives a soft cry. Suddenly, a large sword, a Zweihander, appears where none had been before. The cry grows louder and louder, taking on an almost musical cadence...

the figure slams the ruby into the hilt and holds the sword in both hands, holding it to his chest. There is a moment of blurring...

And Alexander Black spins around and slices the head off the Gheist which had been sneaking up behind him.

That was the signal the mindless fiends were waiting for. More of them charge down the stairs for the interloper, throwing themselves towards him.

Throwing themselves forward to death. And every time one of them is killed (killed much like a human would kill a fly), it makes it even more difficult for the others. Where blood splatters the armour, the armour is cleansed. Slowly, the wraith returns himself to a passable approximation of full strength, splattered with the hearts and blood of the gheists.

One gheist is left. Wounded, dying, it gibbers in fear when Alexander's mailed fist clenches around its throat, pulling it up to stare into that helmet. Two sharp blue fires, like ice, glare out, meeting the eyes of the gheist and suddenly drawing its soul in.

The gheist falls limply to the ground. It's body isn't quite dead yet.

But its soul is lost.

With hardly a movement, the wraith pulls forth a portal. Not a smooth, easy portal like those of the void. But a venemous cancer that draws in at reality, that seems almost to decay that around it.

And Alexander Tyral Black, once Prince-Regent of the Divine Imperium of Novar Ohan and the Sunset Isles, steps through.

A dark shadow emerges from a dark portal and its eyes turn toward him, a wide, twisted grin upon his face. The sword in his hand dripped with the blood of the ghiest

Sigrun awoke from the dream, his face covered in the humidity of the nighttime breeze.

An old force had arrived on the world's plane again. That much he understood. The being was related to Sigrun's nemesis of old: Damien Black.

But who was he?

Sigrun lay there, silent and thoughtful. Should he go to Roania and investigate?

Was it time for his primary mission to begin?