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Rated: E · Fiction · War · #2319688
a wip dark fantasy novel, surrounding the coordination of a new Warpriest into the Church.
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖂𝖆𝖗

"And thus i have declared unto you, i release destined death so well earned unto my enemies, and i shall cast them into the night where there is Deom and the betrayers awaiting their vile kin with hungry maws. My soldiers are to be inexorable and unyielding in their conviction! The bellow of their guns shall ring as holy sounds, only strengthening their conviction and resolve. Even death shall not see their end truly. And they will butcher and hunt, chasing their foul game to the bowls of Grenholm, where there is weeping and toiling. We shall make sickness and hunger like a weight upon their neck, and my children will ravage the enemies of man, eating of their flesh and grinding of their bones, they shall see to it their women made barren and their children hung from the burning visages of their vile kingdoms. Their men will be taken prisoners and made into dust and formless gore, from which my soldiers, my children! Shall feast upon, sucking marrow from bone. This is my will, the will of Man. The will of me. And it shall be done, and upon this night the sun shall rise once more to only see humanity atop its foes ashes and corpses."
-Abyssiadon, the Angel King of Coblair

Chapter 1
Visages of an Angel.

“wake up” his father had said sternly. Sunlight piercing his blinds as he was shaken some by the old man. “Your coordination is this afternoon. Ye must prepare. Lest ye want to be a shame on the house too?” he questioned. His fathers cold, almost dead eyes scanned his son for any signs of fear or hesitation. He looked at the old withered husk of what was once a proud house lord. Briefly reminded him of his ghastly appearance. For you see, Lucidon was not like other men, nor was house Ra’Nevithrom. Or any of the holy houses destined to rear Priest and clergybreeds. While he thanked that he was deemed pure of blood and not cast out as a slave, or worse. He still yet lamented his form and had always thought himself monstrous. His arms and legs were too long, he had an extended neck and sharp ghoulish features. Extra muscles rippled under his pale as death skin. 7 clawed fingers were bore upon his hands. While it may have deformed his form much like the glowing rocks deformed babes in the womb up north. Twas the price of having hypermagilosis. It was what truly set Ra’Nevithrom apart. What most would call a blight or a curse, his form of hypermagilosis had granted his family extremely strong magic. Perfect for a priest. “See to it you’re ready for the first bloods to be drawn in an hour.” His father spoke, breaking his thoughts. “And pray to the king you become a Priest of the Ordos Exerminus or Ordos Conquestidorium.” He said with a seldom shown smile. “Father?” Lucidon asked “I am not going to disappoint” he said firmly, watching his sire exit his chambers, closing the door behind him. He heard a lock from the other side. Even if Lucidon had held a second thought and decided to escape, he couldn’t. going out the window and trying to levitate was out of the question as well, for he knew he would be swiftly shot down without hesitation, his name scrubbed from family records, and his body dumped somewhere for the common filth and the beast to pick at.

there he sat on his favorite chair, so simple, yet elegant. He nervously rubbed his hand against its wood grain while chanting the prayers he had been learning since before he could even properly speak. The fine grainage had been worn down some as he had a habit of griping the chair since he was young, and he knew that this was his last time being in this room he had grown up in. he hated this. He didn’t want to go through with the coordination. But, alas. He must. It mattered not what he cared in this moment, for this was for the good of not him, but Humanity. To run away would be the actions of a selfish coward who ought to be hunted down and strung up. As he was calming himself down, he had taken a knife and cut a part of his palm. It was painful, but he was used to this. Blood had not flowed out, rather a steam. It was the waste magic his body had overproduced while he was stressed. He watched the magic flow out until it was only dripping a bit of blood. “Can’t get this on my robes” he muttered to himself while cleaning his hand with a rag. He sighed before getting up from his chair and looking at the black robes given to him for the ceremony. They were a strange fur like fabric, almost like velvet, though, softer. The robes themselves had white symbols all over it, either being runes, seals, or incantations. They all rung of how the wearer was unclean and in need of purifying, that to wear this garment is to humiliate yourself and be humbled. He donned them, feeling the fabric, it felt quite nice, at least until the holding needles bit into his skin as the robes found their proper place. The let out a short breath as long, razor sharp hooks raked into his flesh, keeping the robe in place and preventing it from being taken off. He groaned in agony as he felt the hooks grab into his spine. He saw streams of blood drain onto the hardwood floors. With a final cry of anguish, he fell to the ground. Quietly sobbing to himself as the pain subsided. His hands and back were caked in blood, waste magic now pouring off him like a slab of hot metal dropped in water. he felt the hook’s pain subside soon enough, allowing him to move again, yet he still just laid there, sprawled in his blood and tears. From his fetal position he saw the mask still there, laid on the table near where the cloak was. It was a skull like thing with an ugly grin. A grin that seemed to mock him now. He imagined the mask saying “look at you, a son of Ra’Nevithrom! Such a pity truly to see the fruits of the vine have spoiled into waste!” it seemingly said in Lucidon’s mind with a vile mocking tone.

Without his doing, he felt a sharp pain in his back as more magic was released like smoke from a fire, and he was forced to stand up. He felt magic pouring out of every part of him, almost as if he was burning alive. He soon regained balance, now more so confused as to how he had stood up. Before he could even think of a reason as to why, he saw as the sun was nearing its apex, and his coordination was soon to follow. He quickly pushed the soreness of his back aside and reached out to grab the mask, though, with a moment of hesitation. he picked it up and stared it some “only a coward and a heretic wouldn’t” he assured himself, before placing the mask on his face and tucking its neat leather straps behind his shade black hair, and pulled the hood of his robe over, fiddling with it to get its cone shape proper. He dreaded the next part of this ritual. He knew what must be done however. He took his dagger and slit a part of his wrist. Before letting the blood drain onto the mask, filling the cracks and cervices in its despicable form. He groaned in pain as he moved his hand onto the table and cast some simple frostmagi onto the wound, sealing it shut. He held his arm for a moment, trying to ignore the cold. He noticed from inside the mask, it began to glow with a baleful light, a deep, sickly red. "Obtestor te, o magne angelus! Protege me ab omnibus malis quae forte imminent! Fac ut meum propositum perveniat et ego stans relinquar. Te obsecro, o sancte, o Domine, o Rex meus! Illumina viam meam, dirige et esto clipeus spiritus meus!" he was chanting, reciting prayers out of pure muscle memory, asking his King to grant him safe passage. He laid prostrate on his floors, now stinking of dried blood like a candle born incense. He almost wished to beg the Angel for mercy, ask him to spare him from the trials that might unfold during his coordination. Almost. Alas, he rather asked for strength and zeal. He asked for a conviction of iron, and a will of unyielding holy flame. As he got up, he saw from his window a Greater Gilded Rok, a holy bird only kept by the Grand Archpope and the Arch Inquisitoriums. Its form, while swift and hard to make out, was that of a giant bird with six great wings and two heads. He saw its shimmering golden featherscales glow and reflect the light as it dove into the courtyard and onto a pedestal. He then saw another one speed by, passing over a sun a few minuets from its apex. He felt his stomach drop.
the unlocking of his door broke him from his focus, he saw a tall man, almost 11’ tall dressed in a deep, blood red cloak, covered in ivory seals and spells, on his cloak was hundreds of small bones and teeth, wither woven into his robe or dangling from small silver chains. His neck was long, almost like a bird, as for his mask, it was ivory white and shaped like a heron’s skull. Needles stuck out from it at every angle, and 5 empty voids covered its face, each seemed to be staring at him like a monster watching prey. In his hands he held a long thorn covered staff made of gold, at its top was small bones and skulls, as well as a carved rok made from Drake Ivory. Lucidon’s heart froze and his blood had seemingly turned to ice. For, this was no Warpriest. It, no. He was a Bellard Carnialis. One of 6 within the Angel’s Court. “Your coordination is neigh, Lucidon of Ra’Nevithrom, son of Apothidon, Slavent of the Angel’s Court. For I am now your master, and under me, thou shalt learneth of the Angel’s Ways. Doth thee accept and allow us to be joined under his holy wings as master and student?.” The Carnialis said with a voice like lightning, bellowing deep within Lucidon’s soul. Every instinct told him to run, yet, to do so was destined death. “by doctrine I live, hallowed by rites. So thus you are my master and I, your slavent. I ask humbly of you, having donned these here robes of humility, teach me the Angel’s way, and guide me to his priesthood for whatever my calling may be” Lucidon said after a moment, trying to string together the proper words he had been memorizing for months. He felt a pit in his stomach, a dark, empty void which threatened to consume his soul “then it is done. Lucidon of Ra’Nevithrom, I grant you the title of Inslavent Lucidon of the Ordos Conquestidorium. You have been stripped of house loyalty and ties. for I, Bellard Carnialis Vennin of the Ordos Conquestidorium, have taken you as a Inslavent and will sponsor your Coordination. Should thou prevail, you will be granted the title of Warpriest and gifted a territory and an army counting in a million soldiers, two hundred thousand warbreeds, and eighteen thousand artillery pieces ” He said, his voice sounding through the room as though even sound was afraid of him. He outstretched his arm and with a clawed hand covered by a red glove, he grabbed Lucidon’s mask and began to pull it like clay into the shape of a bird. He then took his thumb and molded a third eye to the mask, before inscribing a seal onto it. “it is done, my Inslavent. Thou art now a candidate for priestly roles. Now, come my Inslavent, do as I say, and prevail. Lest thou ought to be upon a cross.” He said in a cold and almost mechanical voice. One seeped in a old and violent wisdom. “I will do as thou pleases, serving the will of the Angel’s Court, the will of Him, our most sacred Lord until my last drop of blood. The pact is sealed. Let nought even death break it.” Lucidon replied with the proper response. he wanted to cringe with the deep sickly red glow from the seal upon his head, it had begun to glow with the words of the pact said. He felt a weird sensation, that of a rod or something of the sort digging though his skull, and resting right above his brain it seemed. The screw was coming from the mask, and would kill him if he backed out of his end of the pact. he then wordlessly took a drop of blood from the painless wound and drew a crown with six wings on the seal out of his own lifeblood. After the mask had stopped its soft glow, he breathed out with a sense of relief he hadn’t known was possible. The first blood was drawn without complication.
“And thus, the ritual is complete. Sigilis Angelis. Now, ye hither these words true. Follow me, Inslavent. Follow me into thou’st destiny and fated path. Let the Angel take hold of thee.” The Carnalis said in a voice more befitting a dragon than a man, his words slithering though the sounds of Lucidon’s breath. Lucidon could only meekly nod to this masters command. He kneed and swiftly got back up, the Ballard Carnalis already exiting Lucidon's old chambers. These walls which he had known for 17 years. Gone. He would never return unless it was besieging the castle that he was raised in. The skin on his face itched, yet he dared not touch it. He internally writhed in agony. He wanted nothing more than to tear off that mask and itch his skull till the skin peeled. Yet, he knew that the skin was likely already gone. The mask, it was eating his skin. Devouring it greedly, and absorbing it into itself. The mask, no, his face. It was what was left. The mask was his face now. It's vile black form his skin, and the hardened boneplate now fused with his skull. The killbolt now deeply lodged in his brain. It was maddening. Driving home to the edge of insanity, yet, he had to remain steeled. Unyielding and like a basalt bastion. He walked behind the holy man, watching the eclipse cast a shadow over the painting strung up on the walls of the castle. The windows offering a glance at the courtyard. Though, it was obscured by the stained glass. The stained glass windows rather offered images, visages of older ages. Some showed victorious scenes of battle, commanders and Warpreist bearing the Ra’Nevithrom name standing proudly with the beetle standard over mountains of bodies. Others showed images of the greatest of the house. “Corithoa, the Bloodladen” he whispered, watching the dying sunlight hit a images of a Inquisitor, her black cape flowing, and her inquisitorial robes running red like spilled blood. In her hand a scythe made from the iron of felled dwarven. Her face was one of beauty, yet, it showed the thousands of gallons of blood and gore. Lucidon shivered at her almost cruel gaze. He next walked pass a window showing the scene where Warpriest Horian Lupricyrus was leading his army in a final stand against the Dwarven warhordes during the Second War for Dwaraman. It was a scenes in grave sadness, his face steeled, yet shedding a single tear, scarred, yet, mourning. Behind his head was a golden halo, and his Boneplate armor was slick with blood not his. Horian’s spear was held high, the image of the Beetle of Ra’Nevithrom has flying on it proudly. Around him was his guard, firing their chainrifles in every direction. Reaping death to the Autosquats, knee deep in death. They had known that in that cacophony of blood and steel, there lied their grave. They had taken a total of 4000+ enemy soldiers with them. Truly, heros of Humanity he had thought to himself while the surprisingly light footsteps of the Carnalis echoed in the hallway. As the stained glass stopped and the hallway took a path deeper into the castle, he had sighed in his mind. These walls, once only thought of as prison, now. Now he had known their comfort and stability only while it was fleeting. Inside this area of the halls, the air was stuffy. Suffocating almost. Trophies hung from the walls, grim and violent. Their dead eyes watching in a way that the Markoth hordes that their armies made could stare at you. Some of the trophies were that of monsters and Drakkokin. A red dogaron head was looking down at the path, it's massive form almost 20’ wide and easily 35’ long. It's long fangs glistening in the candlelight. Dancing as if they were still drooling with the flamebile the dragon had spat in life. Next to it's head was the skull of its slayer, A man by the name of Tenirh “Stag” Qunith. One of the most fearsome lords of the house’s bloody history. Under the skull mount, which was tiny in comparison to the dragon, was a poleaxe. The same rusted weapon driven into the dragons brains. Another mount was that of one of the last elven warbeast. A thing by the name of a Caviat. It was like a bear, though, much larger. Almost 40’ long. Terrifying creatures with thick, furred hide. It's head was akin to a leopard seal, big teeth and small eyes, and it's tail had barbs said to be poisonous. Yet, even with all that 4 tons of muscle and fat, propelling a beast made to kill, it has paled In comparison to man's drive to kill. The beast had died in a hail of shellfire. Raining like death upon the elven town Ra’Nevithrom’s armies had found and promptly attacked. 14000 of the vile knife ears had been slain in that siege. The bombs had not cared if they were man nor woman, old or young. Fighter or farmer. All were simply made to formless gore. His blood then froze as the Bellard Carnalis stopped before a trophy of the Warbeetle house. “I was there when that temple fell.” He spoke in a old voice, slick with blood. Lucidon looked at the trophy in question. A relic from the Ghrenholm Gate. It was a collection of beastial skulls and limbs. Some looked like draconic things twisted by some evil magic, and others like insects grown to massive sized, bearing teeth and horns that would make a warrior squirm. In the middle, was a single skull. It was strange, 16 eye sockets adorned the blackened bone, 6 horns raised up to the heavens formed a wicked crown of sorts on its head, it's snout was thick and short, cracked in a few places. In its mouth was more of a vortex than a mouth. Rows of huge needle like teeth filled it. The thing was a Bafnori. A lord of Blasphemy among the demons and deomish hordes of the hells. “I was there, amidst the blood and war. Twas a horrific sight.” Venin spat with a snarl. “I was a 4th year Warpreist with a platoon of 600. Nought but me made it out of that hell. We had foughten, tooth and claw, fighting alongside a host of 100,000 other legions and armies, millions upon millions of soldiers like ants. We were trying to swarm the gate, block it with either gunfire or our dead.” Venin said, touching the skull. “I was there, standing on a Corpsewyrm’s back, launching death and spell from my saddle. And out of the blackness of that vile gate, it freed itself. It had instantly murdered thousands of men. In a instant! And it has laughed. A sick thing it was” he said, his voice now a snarling roar, like waves of thunder and hate. “I, a mighty Carnalis now, was frozen in piss fear. Scared of that demon. My wyrm however, was nought. And it had blindly launched itself, and I, Into the demon. And while it tussled and was ripped to shreds, I had flung onto the demons back, it's many heads biting at me while I changed prayer.” A heavy aura came off the old Priest in waves, his magicks now expanding from him “in those prayers I found myself steeled, and raging with zeal, and hatred. Hatred! A burning hatred for the thing that has taken my soldiers from me! That has stolen the lives of thousands more! And laughed at it. Spouting heresies and lies while it did so gleefully. And doth you know what I had done?” He asked, his voice now becoming tamer, though Lucidon knew very well it was a facade of the fury the Bellard had shown. “I… I do not, master.” Lucidon answered truthfully. For he knew that the Bellard would see though any lies “I began to wrack across it's body. I ripped one of its vile spines from its back and began to tear its flesh. I sliced its necks and cracked its bones. I revealed in its cries and pained roars. The Angel Kings might filled my hateful heart and directed it to that wretched thing. The deomish were slaughter and butcher by the armies of man as their leader was too agonized to direct them. Over 3 days and 3 nights of my nonstop rampage across the mammoth beast, it fell. The last of its heads was sliced, and its muscles and meat torn. Torn to shreds.” Lucidon was stunned at the story, he had known that the Carnalis was a brutal man. He was the Lord of Conquest. But, the sheer ruthlessness shook him some. “Master? if I may. Why is it's trophy here then, and not at the hall of conquest?” He asked with fear. Venin replied “Because it was the Warbeetle House that broke the gates to hell. Your house. Ra’Nevithrom earned this trophy. Whilst I had killed the thing, it would have been in vein hath ye house nought slammed the walls till they broke.” “Why do you tell me this, Master?” Lucidon asked meekly, frankly confused as to why the Carnalis was speaking to him in such a familiar way “Because as I was fighting that vile demon, thou'st musteth learn. Your life in not as important as you believe. You should be ready to lay it down in a split second unless the Angel decrees it otherwise.” He said sternly “the Angel King is the reason we exist. He is humanity incarnate. Abyssiadon is mankind. And to place yourself above humanity is not just a blasphemous herasy of the highest order, punishable not just death, but Necrovivancy. It is a crime against thyself. Thine owneth soul. It is a act that damns you to where no light may reach your bottomless pit.” He said gravely, laced with ice. Venin towered over Lucidon by almost several feet taller than the boy turned priest. But it was Venin’s aura, both magical and just sheer intimidation that made Lucidon coil away like a cat from water. as he gazed upon the Bellard Carnalis, a thought pass though his racing mind, a realization. He was a monster. Yes, that was what he was now. Same as venin. A monster bred for war. He wasn’t human, at least, whatever shred of humanity he had from his birth was ripped away violently by the elder monster standing before him. Monsters that wore robes made of skin, and drank the blood of slain enemies, young or old. Monsters that carried golden staffs and preached of salvation, yet, as the gun bellows the sound of death, he was its dealer and disciple. As his mind was racing, fighting off the urge to run. Run from this holy demon given flesh, he took a step back. Venin wordlessly seemed to take note of Lucidon’s fear, or mayhap he hadn’t. the mask that Venin wore offered no face to read, nor eyes to watch. He silently shook his head after a few agonizing minuets, and turned around “cometh now, we have the feast of Orders to attend, Inslavent.” Venin said with almost malice.

the air fell silent as a slaughtered lamb as both the Bellard Carnalis and Lucidon walked, the trophies still watching him with their cold, dead eyes. Not that it particularly bothered him, but for some reason, he still did not want to make direct eye contact with the hundreds of monsters, beast, and men strung up in the Warbeetle house’s castle. For what felt like ages, Lucidon saw other people walking in a cross section of the hallways to them. The men were short compared to him, much less the Carnalis, to which, Venin had paid them no mind. He men themselves wore greyish black cloaks made of some kind of hide. They both had mask and different shapes to their hoods. One had a mask like a slaver hound, and the other like a bear skull. The one with the slaver hound had a hood shaped like a crescent moon. Forming tall horns reaching to the heavens like obsidian spires. The other had a hood shaped like either a single long horn from the top of his head, or like a lonesome spire. they both carried on their backs chainscythes, and in their hands, chains. Behind them was a coffin being dragged by the chains, lampreys, curious little Vivomanced things, followed in tow, their dozens of tiny legs rising and falling like a tide of needles. They themselves seemed to weave in and out of the coffin though small holes in it, and screams came from inside the thing. Surprisingly, the coffin seemed to drip out a sweet-smelling brownish substance onto the ruby red carpets. It almost smelled of honey glazed ham, or caramelized Lou’roy. The man with the wolf mask quickly bowed as he passed the pair. His glove quickly flashed a image of a skull with 7 eyes and a chain. He was a slaver of the Ordos Merchantilium. Men who sold in all things living, he was unsure of how it took him so long to recognize the man’s garments, or, more evidently, his aptly fitting mask of a wolf known to take smaller wolves as “slaves” the thought passed in his mind almost as quickly as it came, after all, it wasn’t too unusual to see one, especially considering that half of this castles staff is slaves. Yet, what had troubled him was his own slow response. It was information he should have known! Alas, Lucidon could not dwell on it for long as the Bellard Carnalis swiftly turned the corner into where the slavers had come from. the hallway opened up into a massive hall with a glass ceiling. The walls were carved stone, as the rest of the walls were, though, massive veins of bone were growing as well, patching places where the stonework was failing. The carpets were a midnight, inlayed with the beetle and hammer that was the Ra’Nevithrom standard. The floor itself seemed to either have been carved to look like, or, was a massive collection of skulls. Molten glass has been poured on top to seal them in, as he tread upon the ground, it rung with a slightly haunting melody. Like the sounds of thousands of ghosts humming their burial hymns.

Up ahead was a door he hadn’t seen before, it was… evil. It looked like what was hundreds of corpses mixed and mashed into one another, turned to a bone like stone stained black. He saw their pained faces and anguished looks. 6 stood out, they were clearly visible, standing almost upright with their backs against the door in almost a weird circle, in their hands they all held flutes made of ivory, the likes of which seemed to be making that unearthly singing hum. Above each head laid a word “here lies where humans come die.” It read in laach, the language of the holy orders. “Fate, such a brutal thing, death is nigh, Lucidon.” Venin spoke almost remorsefully. He knew better than to question the Carnalis’s words, but still, he couldn’t help feel his heart pumping as if he was running till the border of Machion.

The doors heaved open with a groan, at their base was thousands of tiny bones weaving like spiders. Dragging the living gate across the floor. They rose and fell like the fingers of a bored man. Where the doors were drug, blood leaked onto the spotless glass floors, and lampreys quickly came to lap it up. The Bellard Carnalis stood steeled. He took his golden staff and tapped the ground softly, and the lampreys dissipated, their duty done. He began to almost float soundlessly towards the room the doors had opened into “and here lies thy destiny, Inslavent. Abandon and shed thy hope, thy cloak of mercy, and every last tear. For you are to become Hüm’jhi, and no longer be man.”
Lucidon replied with “My duty is to be so holy, and I am but is will made flesh.” A response Venin seemed to have accepted. Lucidon had tried to shed his humanity as asked, yet. He couldn't. Whether it be weakness or a hesitant, he found himself unable to bear the inhuman indifference. He breathed in heavily, feeling the lukewarm air of the hallways fill his lungs. He watched as the room opened up into.

the room itself was longer than wide, but still big enough to fit multiple large dragons inside. It was well decorated, but dimly lit. the walls weren’t just bare stone, but they seemed to be carved bone, grown to be ornate and decorative, the image of a giant beetle was present in the carvings, fighting off the great ape of the now extinct Khaknimor. A large fireplace on one side of the wall was burning with a blue flame, jumping and popping as it devoured the wood greedily. And on its mantle, a head of a Warbeetle. It was huge, with its eyes as large as dinnerplates, and the armored head almost resembling a more gruesome stag beetle. Its horns were akin to spiked and serrated scythes. Below the mount was a long dinner table. It was prepared with every fine delicacy from all the corners of Pythoria. Roasted boar, goldtounge sheep chops, and glazed Vis’ak. A entire butchered Deomish was at the center of the table, its massive ugly form stripped of its insect like rock plating, and its tender flesh was slathered with honey and herbs. It smelled amazing. Lucidon was left confused? He was told that this place was of damnation and death. Yet? It seemed like a heaven. “Take thy seat, Inslavent.” Venin said sternly, and Lucidon found the seat labeled with a hornless beetle on the opponent end of the fireplace.
“is this it, master?” Lucidon asked his master “I see 6 seats, yet only you and I are here?” “have patience, the other Priest will be here in do time.” He replied with a gesture of his hand. “toucheth nought the food just yet, it would be improper.”

“Master, if I may. I do have another question” “speak and thou shalt be given a answer.” Venin answered “what is the meaning of this? I fail to understand why we are having a dinner before my coordination?” Lucidon asked “this feast is the feast of orders, Inslavent. It is the final dinner before thou are to be wrought into the Priesthood. It is the final meal for your human self what must be butchered before ye can be’eth a Warpriest.” He said “so cherish it well, inslavent. A man ought to enjoy his final meal.” Lucidon was struck with a strange sense of dread, like looking down a pit you are to plunge headlong into. He remained silent as another priest entered the room. He was cloaked in a white robe, and had a mask like a eagle with 3 eyes, covered in large metal spikes. He took a seat quickly and nodded to Venin “Grandsaber Venin. Quite nice to see thee. I assume this is thine Inslavent? He said, referring to Lucidon in a gravely voice like a mountainside “Ah, Archleon the Archmagius. How pleasant, and yes, he is my Inslavent, Lucidon of Ra’Nevithrom.”
“Fitting that you chose a victim of Hypermagilosis as your slavent” he Warpriest chuckled “do tell, how is the conquest of the Frost elven coming to fruition?” Lucidon was alarmed, he wasn’t even aware we were at war with them as well, he knew of the tunnel wars for the underground, and the constant skirmishes between Coblair and the warhordes of Ghorvos the Despoiler before he could think, he asked “We’re at war with the Northeim?” “ah, that we are Inslavent. They hold the mines where the greenblight have made their homes. Such vile beast really, I truly cannot fathom why the old gods made such things.” Archleon said passively taking a small sip of some wine from his skull chalice “mayhap it was for mankind to crush under heel and hammer” Venin joked. Lucidon was lost, we were going to war, to be able to fight another war? “do correct me if I'm wrong, but it does sound like were going butchering the Northheim so we can finish off a old threat that hasn’t shown itself since the Ghanderot massacred them over 200 years ago?”
“I don’t see any reason not too, the tusked hordes are a dying flame of the old world. It’s a easy victory for us. It would also put us on better grounds with the dwarven considering afterwards we are to invade the elven kingdoms with Dwarven Siege machines.” The Mage said with a dismissive handwave “even if the greenblight hordes were to present a challenge, they built their disgusting den under thousands of tons of rock.” He continued with a snark
“and what of the Northheim? Their allies with the elven?” Lucidon countered, eliciting a grunt and a hand gesture to venin “they are primitives with no war experience. They live in homes barely better than caves, and their military might of the tribes consist of bears and guns from the first age of man. As for their allies? What are they to do? we've already taken more than half of the snow ears as either corpses or slaves.” Venin replied monotony. “even if the elven take an issue with us wiping out their cousins, there be’eth nothing they could do. their akin to a turtle, it can defend, but its attack is nil.”

“oh you Priest and your wargames” a voice like a old machine said, grating and hard to listen to. “is that all you care about? War and more war?” it continued. “oh save it for the vultures, Vashnnor” the mage said jokingly “or are you and your Inquisitors too busy swatting them away from your decay?” “that is no way to speaketh to your elder, Mage” the Inquisitorium snaped back. The voice slowly came from the darkness, it was a hulking form, resembling a worm almost. A dozen arms were on his cloaked body, rapped in the black cloaks of the inquisition. His face was human sized, unfitting for the 30’ long monster that treaded itself in with both slaves and its own dozens of insect like legs. His face was concealed with a porcelain mask, that of a crying face. It crawled its way over to the end of the table. Where a pillow lay. The slaves, who where in chainmail and having a flag of the inquisition over it bowed their flayed heads. The pink of still living flesh pulsated and writhed.
“you’ve long past elder, inform me please on how I should speak with the undead?” the arch mage poked, eliciting a wave of the old inquisitor’s claw “I would ask for you to tell me, with how your raise your men from the dead after every battle” he said, grabbing a leg of some kind of roast bird and biting into it. his mouth working at it as they were more fang and chelicera than teeth.
“why must ye two bicker like a pair of wyrms every chance ye get?” venin said, growing tired of their insults. Archleon tapped his staff on the ground, before pulling a strand of metal off it, cracking with small jolts of fire and slag. He formed it into a fork and grabbed a small fruit while staring daggers though his hallow mask at Vashnnor’s lack of manners.
“Lucidon?” Vashnnor asked benignly “how well versed are you in the Apex Anglma?” he asked, refering to the dogma that the Church of the Angel’s court took as scripture.
Lucidon straightened up a bit “I am well read though and though in the Angel Kings most divine word” he said, trying to sound as proper as he could.
“then do tell me, I seem to have forgotten” the inquisitor spoke while Venin somehow managed to look incredibly annoyed though his mask. “what does Abyssiadon tell us to live by?” he finished, asking a basic enough question.
Lucidon quickly replied to him “He hath declared us to conquer every nation and people, to leave no harm unrazed and no foe alive, and he has declared to us that man shall be crowed the heirs to the oldest magicks the Druchen keep under lock.” He says “he also tells us to work together to ensure humanity survives.” Lucidon finishes, while the Inquisitorium nods his head slowly
“good…good. It seems you didn’t pick a orgar this time, Venin” the inquisitor said with a hefty chuckle, causing his rolls of fat to jiggle. “you doubt my ability to choose?” venin said coldly.
“no no, well, it only be’eth that the last slavent you took was maimed by frost elven no? and the one before that was blown to smithereens leading a failed campaign against the hordes of Ghorvos? Do correct me if I'm wrong, Grandsaber.” Venin listened as he slowly sipped his wine. “you are correct, inquisitor. But, they all died in service to the Angel King. No shame in that. And, I must point out that Feilion may have died in his plight against the despoiler, but, he weakened them enough for the Bellatorium to stomp them from our borders.”
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