[Anomaly]

Earth shaking, blood boiling, the expression of resistance in its rawest form. This is the only way to describe the scene as the enchanted links of the Holy Shadow are ripped from their supports, weak links whining and giving way under the steady onslaught of this darkling juggernaut. Anomaly might even have been impressed by this display if the light and smoke from the constant explosions did not hide his target from view.

Instead he marks his enemies progress by the severed links of the Holy Shadow writhing on the ground. They wallow only for a moment, then flow like black water back into the great mass of the cloak still rippling from Anomaly's shoulders. Some links are unrecoverable. Utterly destroyed as they are, they will never be part of the swirling dark folds of the Holy Shadow again. Yet instead of mourning his cloaks tatters, Anomaly remains focused on the shape looming closer through the choking smoke of his barrage.

He comes closer and closer still. A steady, inexorable gait, like the march of time. No matter how much ammo he pumps into his enemy, there is no stopping him. With a surprising suddenness after such staid progress, the dark shape comes to a halt. Crimson eyes glare through the miasma, giving off beams of ghoulish light wreathed in the smoke of small scale destruction. ToroMor now stands in the circle. The Pillars flare, one after the other, as one might expect a great conflagration to react to fresh fuel added to the fire storm. It is unlikely that ToroMor notices this. Or that he notices, through the haze, the blood that spills into the circle being absorbed by the stones almost as soon as it falls.

Realizing the futility of further such assault, the slots on the Anomalists armor slide back into place with a soft click as the lord of the Masters lowers his arms, staring down at the being who stands before him. It's clear that though his armor and flesh appear an absolute wreck there is no stopping ToroMor from continuing this fight. Silence rings after the endless string of explosions. When ToroMor speaks it is obscene compared to the howl of battle that came before. Louder than all the explosions, perhaps due to proximity, the Dark Christ bellows, "You fight like a girl!"

For the first time during this battle, Anomaly's smile fades and his eyes narrow to sharp slits. The ever moving Holy Shadow stills as well, and all light fades from the Corruption armor. ToroMor hefts his massive hammer and charges like a wild animal, haphazard and enraged, all muscle and fury. There is a moment, in the swirling smoke, when it seems the Grand Master must surely be mowed down by the mass of bleeding muscle and blackened metal. That moment is lost and utterly extinguished as a sudden roar rips through the chamber, high...and feral...and mad.

In a flash, Anomaly stands beside the Dark Christ, a crimson light trail all that marks his progress from where he stood to where he now stands. The source of the light trail, and the roar as well, his life draining blade the Blood Reaver. Massive and engulfed in crimson lightning that literally licks up and down the cruel carving blade, the Anomalists weapon draws droplets of ToroMor's blood from his open wounds, causing beads of the blackish fluid to float serenely in a steady stream through the smokey air. They splatter against the cold metal where they are then swallowed by the ravenous spirit within. Anomaly, a pillar of cold focus, whispers gently in the Dark Christs ear. Just a whisper, yet the harsh synthetic edge in his voice carries his words easily around the chamber and just as easily through his opponents skull, as a hot scalpel through grey matter. Though his face is hidden, the mocking disdain in his voice is all too apparent, "A girl? Then how appropriate. Since you bleed like a twat!"

A crack, like the spreading of canvas in gale force winds, and the Anomalist is gone before his whisper fades. Lost in that smoke shrouded gloom, all warmth has fled from the laughter that now comes in great peels echoing throughout the Keep, bouncing from every direction. In the cacophony of harsh grating laughter, you cannot hear the sad thump as the head of ToroMor's massive war hammer falls to the ground. A perfect cut by the Reaver Blade, separating the heavy metal head from the shaft, now gripped uselessly in the dark juggernauts hands.

Rising in smooth curls, the smoke begins to fade, revealing the chamber maddeningly whole and unmarred. You would expect some sign of the battle thus far to be evident, yet not a stone is out of place, not a drop of blood mars the floor. The most damaged thing standing on it, Lord Mor and his war hammer. One thing is missing however. Though the smoke rises there is no revelation of the Grand Master. It seems he has fled. Could it be that he was shaken by ToroMor's display of wanton power? Could it be that he is disturbed by his enemies accusation of weakness? Unlikely.

Like a black star falling from the heavens, the Lord of the Void pierces the last swirl of smoke and descends silently from above. The tip of the Blood Reaver slices smoothly through the air, in a great descending curve designed to split the Dark Christ from crown to crotch in one fell sweep.