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> Ritual war in the West rages briefly, news from the Isle of Dragons and its elemental Isles
JackFlashblade
post Feb 27 2018, 12:35 PM
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Annie stood in awe, staring up at the beautiful sky that had erupted into flames of light, darkness, lightning and lava.

A second later all that was left of her were a few incinerated ashes blasted across the Isle of Dragons.

As the ritual strikes rained down upon the Isle the ritual defences, rumoured to be amongst the strongest upon Primus, kicked into action.

As strike after strike hammered upon the dome that had formed over the isle Lucius' folk ran for cover, most seeking sanctuary at the Grand Temple to Dead Heroes, the Tall spiral towers of the Arcanum, or the Enclaves library.

As the dome on the east side of the Isle started to give, a rainbow of fire erupted through and incinerated three score of fishermen who had chosen to arrive away from the main settlement and fishing port, and were making their way across land. Strangely, amongst their remains was the tell tale enchanted dust left behind when artefacts have their powers stripped from them on their users demise.

Standing within the heart of the fireball the new King of the Isle of Pyre sent his consciousness out across his land. He felt the people, the land, the places of power - everything within his demense.

He could see with his minds eye a great well of flaming power. He tried to focus on it, draw it to him, but it was out of his reach. Maybe with time he could bend the power to his will, to some degree at least.

It was an impossible moment. Two heroes stood together against all odds. They had fought their way through the first of the army that had come at them in dribs and drabs. Bartimueus a creature of magic, originally from the lands far to the West, the path of his life had lead him to *this* place, now the creature of truth and righteousness he had been destined to be.
Lucius D'Treal, tall and aloof, unbending and uncompromising. He would not suffer the insult made by the King of this place, and neither of them seemed to have it in themselves to back down. The heroes were near drained of power, but gave nothing of this away as they fought through a pair of flaming masters of battle in a blaze of death.

By all accounts it was this moment that any observer would imagine the full force of the Isles army should fall upon the defiant duo, slaying them where they stood, or forcing them flee. Maybe the fickle creatures of flame decided to hold back, to see what new drama may unfold if the invaders were allowed to continue. Maybe the tall aloof figure with his flowing locks and ancient pacts had enacted some ancient tryst to allow their passage unhindered. Maybe the army recognised something within the creature of magic from the Western lands, causing them to hold off their attacks, or perhaps some obscure joke of the gods - whatever the reason, the pair shifted forth through the isle to the heart of its ritual core unhindered.

It was then that the Eternal Phoenix King of Pyre Isle had his name denied. He appeared within the flaming core only to be sent helplessly out of phase after the enaction of a plan of arcane genius from the heroic pair.

Milly tirelessly tended to the dying from within the Grand Temple to Dead Heroes. Most anywhere near the fiery ritual strikes had been incinerated where they stood, but there were many nearby that has managed to stagger or crawl to the iconic building, and it was these who Milly now tended to - flooding their forms with bright spirits until the burns sealed up, and new skin grew over where before was charred flesh.

Word also had been sent to Tirama of the war that had just sparked between Lucius D'treals and the isle of elemental flame. It was said it had returned to the seas of Primus a few years previously, having sent its self to the 'Nacht for some forgotten reason many decades before.

Moments passed before he stood upon cracked and heated stone. The dust of the incinerated he could feel all around him, and fires were still alight all across the Isle. He signed once more, so recently recovered from the saving of Halgar, ready to do his duty.

As the sun rose over The Isle of Dragons the fires had subsided. Much of the Isle was now a desolate and charred wasteland. The Grand Temple to Dead Heroes, the Tall spires of the Arcanum, and the great Library’s of the Enclave seemed untouched, but the same could not be said of much that the Isles inhabitants had built up, and the lives they had forged for themselves on this Isle so far from most of their birthplaces.

The lone figure of Tirama could still be seen wandering the edges of the craters, drawing to him any fragments that remained of those who died in the strikes and forging for them new bodies so as to give them a second chance of life. Despite his blessed form, it was plain for any to see that he was drained, his spirit stretched, driven on only by his desire to ensure all who had fallen were to be reborn in the name of Shaehan. This would take days, if not weeks, and this was not a chance he could give any of them again.

The Stocky Bodyguard lay in his plush quarters, supplied by the Lord of the Isle, staring at the ceiling. Zoran could not stop himself rerunning the horror he had endured on that god- forsaken Isle of flame after his Lord had declared war on its King. Every blow he parried, every step he took to avoid the attacks of the enemy, every blow he ducked underneath, dodged, or blocked with his shield he would re run again and again in his head. Some horrors do not simply pass to be forgotten in the mists of time.

Lady Serin was pissed off. She held in her hand a vial of what had been the most lethal of venoms she had ever seen. Despite her mastery of poison lore, it now seemed to have solidified into a venom only fit for blades and no stronger than one she could brew up herself. She strolled off to find some poor hard working imp to take her ire out on.
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