Requiem for the Wicked - ToroMor vs. Anomaly

[Anomaly]

Here, the cries of battle and the wails of the dying are but a whisper among many. The wraiths of times long past haunt these rooms of cavernous stone. Carved into the very rock by blood, magic, and pure burning rage, the history of The Masters speaks for itself. A crackling of electricity merges sweetly with the languid hiss of swirling magics. Energy ripples in waves over the dark interior, gently caressing stone busts of Masters of the past, the murals of their deeds, and the images of those they defeated in various poses of defeat, despair, and suffering.

Chanting of rituals of the past can still be heard vibrating through the walls, thumping like the beating of a gigan heart. There is no light but a dull background darkness provided by torches that blaze with darkness. At their core starlight flickers, lending a muted brilliance to soaring gables, buttresses, and support columns that reach high towards a ceiling shrouded in distant gloom. The grainy, infrequent light increases in intensity as the eye of the beholder travels closer to the center of this structure. Really, it's the only way to go...all paths lead to the central chamber. All paths lead to the Pillars.

This chamber, more than any other, is lit by the eldrich glow of science and sorcery in sinister duet. After images float in the air, long dead memories given shape if not flesh. Dancing about an arcane circle carved into the stone floor, these images shy away from the source of their creation. The lay lines of power within the octogram flare, each apex of the eight pointed star burning with its own unique light. A huge, uniquely carved column rises from within each of these eight sectors, thrumming with their own energy signatures that feed into a ninth Pillar. Wider than the others, it looms in the center of the circle.

At the base of each Pillar is an ornate throne that faces inwards, towards the central Pillar...the Pillar of Balance. All thrones are empty...save the largest, most ornate of all, bedecked in carvings of beasts and angels, inlaid with the skulls of both, dripping with old tallow from the black candles that burn perched on the many ancient bones. This is the throne of the Grand Master of the Masters. Anomaly sits in full armor, Arad's Corruption gleaming in the magical light, gauntleted hands folded on the pummel of his blood reaving sword. The eyes of the Reaver glow crimson in the semi-darkness and a harsh growl that might be a whisper issues from the blade.

"Yes...I know...It is time."

His eyes open, twin stars in this maelstrom of power. His helm is open so that you can see the distant, almost peaceful features of his pale face. His dark lips part into a cruel smile that is all needle sharp fangs. Here, at the seat of his power, the ebony halo gleams above his head a solid thing made of darkness, light, and the tears of slain angels. With a flick of his finger, he invokes one of his most powerful magics. The octogram flairs and the after images, ghosts of yesterday, flee for their half lives as those closest to the circle are sucked into the matrix of the growing spell. A dark portal opens just outside the Circle.

----------------------

ToroMor, the Dark Christ steps into the portal of darkness he himself has forged. As he arrives he is welcomed by the scent of blood and rotting flesh that haunts any battle field. A welcome sight, surely, his troops and his enemies locked in an immortal struggle that will have an all too mortal end. In the distance towers the Masters Keep, that collection of stones and mortar held together by the most subtle of spell work and technology. In the distance that babylonian tower, his goal, thrusts like a middle finger directed at the universe. Does a smile spread beneath the shadow of his helm? Does he notice the puddle of stars his portal has released him into?

The sky above is still the dull, gray of a day choked with the smoke of charred corpses...yet the puddle in which ToroMor stands shows a night sky swirling with distant stars. The dimensional rip into the X-zone widens just enough, allowing ToroMor to slip through. The Anomalists spell fades from the battlefield.

----------------------

Darkness parts before the Dark Christs eyes like a veil rent from a temple of nightmares. Flames of darkness flare into pillars of night at his arrival before collapsing into points of starlight that flee into the gloom above like children frightened to their very core. Whispers rise all around ToroMor; pleading with him, cursing him, laughing at him, crying to him, but just like the flames they are swiftly snuffed out. The only light that remains is the crimson light that spills from ToroMor's evil eyes.

Before those horrid eyes, a new light floods this cavernous chamber. It is a magical light that seems at first sourceless, before its source becomes all too plain. Nine pillars exude a light of power that blends to create an almost blinding flash, before it is subdued into a gentle pulsing of light...similar to the steady throb of power that permeates this vast chamber. On the distant walls all about the chamber can be seen certain...artworks...from times long past. Bodies embedded in the stone, sewn together, ripped apart, reshaped and meshed are strewn across the walls in a great mural to butchery, to immortality, to death, decay, and most of all to glorious, unyielding conquest. Laced through these cadavers, in various stages of preservation and decay, is circuitry and sacred runes that glow a gentle crimson. All leading in a cluster like earth born lightning back to the throbbing Circle.

At the center of that circle, the perfect and eternal loop, from a throne hung with skins, caked with blood, and the fat of the slain, rises the Anomalist. Unmasked, his eyes burn with an intensity not unlike the stars they resemble as he glares at the one his spell has summoned. A hushed silence decends in the chamber, as all of heaven, hell, fate, and chance eavesdrop on this single sublime moment. This calm before the perfect storm.

[Anomaly]

For a time they stand frozen, this master of darkness and dark Master, as though they have become a part of the beautiful work of art that covers the towering walls. Silence plays its buzzing symphony, ringing out each second with a toll of a bell that rings only in your ears. Rippling in the magics between these two monsters an image of the Fortress shimmers. Swarming with black creatures, like a carcass covered in flies, the progress of the war raging just beyond the walls of the Keep can be seen in minute detail.

Blood rains down to the earth below in rivulets, water falls of crimson spilling from the black fortress already. Winged abominations contend with one another in the air one moment, only to be smote from the air by a bolt of scarlet lightning the next. The constantly shifting image spills its light across the macabre bodies embedded in the wall, lending the grotesque luster of life to the pallid flesh. The steady throbbing of energies, so very much like a pulse, only adds to the illusion, making the walls appear to squirm as much as those soldiers dying in the mud below the fortress stones. The sight is almost hypnotic.

The silence is finally, thankfully broken as the Anomalist sweeps open his writhing cloak and rakes his left gauntlet through the image, dispelling this shadow of events. While the image flickers out of existence Anomaly never once takes his eyes off the Dark Christ. The black mist that spills forth from his eyes mixes with the ebony halo above his pale visage, causing smokey sparks to play over the Anomalists flesh. The stars in his eyes burn with such intensity one almost expects the orbs to go nova inside of his head. The black ankh tattooed on his forehead pulses white. For a moment it seems the lord of the Masters might roar challenge and attempt to strike down his guest here and now. Instead he smiles graciously and places his left hand to his chest piece, bowing his head in greeting to the one whom his spell has summoned. Allowing his white hair to spill slightly over his face...and the revealing of the words 'NOS MOS VICTUM' engraved deeply into his throne behind him.

Without warning, the Anomalists cloak erupts into thousands of individual strings of chain linked material. Writhing like snakes around his body, the cloak flows past the Pillars and flashes across the divide between these two entities like summer lightning. The Holy Shadow hungers for the immense dark power of the Dark Christ.

[ToroMor]

Somewhen, somewhere, in a place far beyond mortal comprehension, where the temple of the Watchers looms forever under a frozen sun and all the secrets of history are collected in a chamber full of bookshelves...

Master Maru was standing before the obelisk of fate, staring motionless into its deepness, his mien an expression of grim strain. Eventually, the concentrated frown transformed into a lifted eyebrow as one of his apprentices approached him on hushed feet.

"Master, did you hear the good news?" uttered the neophyte with youthful excitement.

"What news?"

"The Masters are fighting the Brotherhood of Doom!"

"You call this good?"

"But Master... it was your plan. You told me that the Masters could be our tool to put a halt to the expansion of that dreadful darkness. Now things take exactly the way you planned it, Master!"

"So far you are right."

"Master, please tell me, what is it then, that concerns you?"

"I did not touch fate, yet."

A leaden silence became manifest, rested hard upon the Master and the Apprentice for a moment, and finally sank back into oblivion.

"You did.. not? But how... who.. why?"

"Silent, fool. Touching the web of fate is the most grave and unlawful action.
It is an ultima ratio that should never be used unless consistency is in peril and there's no other way to save it. And even then, we as the watchers of the multiverse, must use the most thorough considerations, with purest hearts and most impartial judgement, before we can do as much as think about it at all."

The now following silence was solely at the cost of the apprentice. For educational reasons, Master Maru prolonged it painfully before continuing, his voice now a bit more indulgent:

"The Brotherhood has started this war on its own initiative."

The leaden silence showed up again, this time resting a little longer before leaving.

"Master Maru! You think..? But they could not have known! That's impossible!"

Maru was what could be called a master craftsman of the irons of fate. He had seen many threats pull up in the endlessness of the multiverse and was a veteran in dealing with difficult cases. At all times, the flow of his thoughts was measured and coherent. Softly striking his gray chin-beard, he frowned.

"I sense a scheme of the Brotherhood's villainous leader, Lord Mor. But that is now meaningless to us. All momentums have been taken off of our hands. We cannot do anything at this point in history, but watch. However, Mor has not won yet. Now back to lectures."

As the apprentice had disappeared, the old Master resumed his study of the nodes of fortune.
But this time, the moroseness in his face was gone. Its place was now occupied by the unveiled signs of anticipation.

---

Deep inside the bowels of the Fortress, shimmering sparks guided the way of a gigantic silhouette. Dancing shadows portrayed the manifestation of a monstrous warrior, fully covered in black armour. The thundering steps of heavy boots resounded through the vast corridors, a fiendish and heralding echo of boundless hubris. The ghastly intruder perceived deadly hatred surrounding him everywhere as he headed towards the central room. Discordant voices followed his path and desperate murmurs whispered his unhallowed name.

The ungodly figure of Toromor finally entered the heart of the Fortress and his gaze roamed around the hall. Pausing, he admired the inherent aesthetics of the structure and the gruesome artworks. He would preserve this view deep down in the inscrutable caverns of his mind - as a commemoration. For one thing was irrevocable: he had come to lay waste; to destroy this artistic building, to kill its protector and all his followers, to annihilate their remains and throw them all into the eternal night from which he was born, in a gruesome example of merciless and raving brutality.

In the centre of this place, Anomaly arose from a throne that resembled those seats on which Lord Mor usually places himself on. This one would surely be a nice add-on for his collection. But for now, the more interesting thing was a floating model of the fortress that magically showed the ongoing of the battle in miniature form. Toromor watched those scenes with unholy delight. Despite the duel of the two leaders being on the brink of its outburst, his sole attention was for a moment captured by the droning of the apocalyptical battle. With pleasure, he observed it as the living heartbeat of his own child - the fresh born war.

---

The reflections fade away. Through the open visor of his helmet, Mor stares into the infuriated eyes of his adversary. No emotion shows in the gaze of the dark invader. His skin is of an almost white paleness, overcast with black spikes, and his facial features are of the most abhorrent kind, even for an arch demon. Toromor is packed with weapons. Besides his infernal sword Morrigu, which comfortably resides on his back, he carries a runic spear in his left and a hammer of war in his right hand, both of gargantuan size. His appearance, his dark corona, his burning eyes - there's no doubt about it - speak of one iron will: the will to prevail.

Motionless, he beholds how his opponent opens a strange cloak and, after a respectful gesture, releases a first spell. Odd things come whirling through the air, fluttering and flashing all at once, and evaporating holy magic. As a crackling rain of brightness, they impinge on the dark aura of Toromor. They seem not strong enough or intended to burst through to the very source of that darkness; instead they erode its boundary, encircling their target and sucking on it like an eager swarm of wasps. Mor mostly ignores them. It is very unlikely to him that in this gloomy place, there could be something with the power of the Holy, strong enough to be of any danger to him. Surely not this cautious first sampling, made from the Anomalist's costume. He would soon feed those pitiful frazzles with more dark power than they could chew!

The heavy heart of the dark giant starts to pound stronger. With unholy body fluids, war excitement flows into the brain of the Dark Christ like a hundred gallons of ale. This is what he had come for, this is the only reason of his blasphemous existence: to conquer and to destroy. With every new beat of his heart, the Dark One feels his power growing from inside. Standing here, a manifest of darkness itself, a gauntlet thrown before the feet of all creation, he is the Christ of Darkness - and this is his moment, his alone! He spreads his arms and holds both weapons horizontally, resembling a giant cross. Like an orgasmic rush, the inebriation of power floods his mind and the lust for war becomes his sole emotion. The dark aura condenses abruptly and makes the wriggling holy chains shiver and wince. In this instant, he almost forgets about his opponent. All he feels now, and all he is able to think about, is the beauty, the glory, the pride and the luster of battle.

Reverting from the grandeur of the moment, Mor lowers his left arm with the spear, while lifting the massive war hammer in his right hand up to his chin. The armour's magic fastenings moan as an immense biceps presses hard against them. Holding the hammer in his fist towards the chin, Toromor returns the respectful greeting of his opponent with the archaic salute of the duellists. Still, it is rather silent. But there is no need for words. Both of the combatants know why they are here and what brought them to this point in history. By a tip of his forefinger, Mor abruptly closes his visor with a sharp crack. A coarse laughter breaks from below the shadows underneath Mor's helmet, finally shattering the silence and preparing the ground for the riots of battle.

His left arm hurls towards his foe in a very uncommon movement, resembling the circular drive of a Trebuchet and, by the emptiness of the nil, with a lot more power. Mor catapults the spear with such obscene strength, that the runes on the shaft shriek through the air like a wounded banshee. This weapon is prepared with the Hammer of Thanatos, a passably powerful spell from the forges of the Brotherhood, commonly used for weapons to break through magical shields. It is very unlikely that it will seriously trouble an opponent of Anomaly's calibre; more likely, it is capable to provoke a first display of style and skill from its target. However, none of these considerations bother Lord Mor at this moment. There is but one thought in his mind:

Take this, Anomaly: my visiting card on this evenfall of your chronology.

[Anomaly]

Chains clink, grinding against one another in their rush to satisfy their gluttonous appetite for ToroMor's dark power. Anomaly observes this coolly and notes, truly, that this enemy can ignore the probing metal shows that he is an unrivaled font of darkness. The lord of the Masters cannot help but wonder if his foe notices that the chains black coloration is not due to any dye, but the fact that neither the spectrum's of light nor darkness can possibly lend any hue to the Holy Shadow before being swallowed whole. Still, it is of no matter.

Languidly the chains writhe around the Dark Christs body as he replies to the Anomalists salute. Yet the chains grow taught as ToroMor hefts his cruel mystic spear. With a toss, the wail of the runic magics instilled in the spear attract the attention of a few tendrils of chain, which rip through the air to snare the dark magics imprisoned within. Truly horrific powers indeed must lay within this weapon for it warps the natural background magics as it travels, piercing the veil of enchantment like a lancet would pierce a boil.

Though the chains bind the spear in midair the great force with which Lord Mor launches the dread object, or perhaps its own substantial power, is enough that the chains are dragged through the air back towards there source. Howling the spear draws closer, aimed to smash through the Grand Masters face and squelch out the back of his fragile skull to pin his body to his own throne.

Calm and collected, Anomaly does not so much as blink as the spear tip is brought up short mere centimeters from the glowing pupil of his right eye. Already the runes are fading as the magics inherent in the spear are devoured, a more accessible feast than that offered by ToroMor. This tableau continues for but a few seconds, chains writhing around the spear, until every last drop of magical energy is devoured. The spear itself is then expelled by the coiling links, like a bone stripped of its meat, sent clattering pel-mel down a distant corridor and into outer darkness.

Anomaly's eyes never leave ToroMor, gazing into that warriors burning eyes so clearly filled with battle lust, oozing his emotions from his every pour. Unable to help it, Anomaly's cold features melt, a warm smile stretching his black lips. A soft, mirthful laugh escapes his mouth as if this little display is some marvelous comedy, the best he has seen in some time. Indeed perhaps that is how he perceives these events as his lips part to display a smile that is all needle point fangs and black gums. Raising his left hand he makes his first movement sense acknowledging the Dark Christ's coming and snaps his fingers.

The reaction is instantaneous as the Holy Shadow tightens its grip with brutal severity. Slithering over ToroMor's form, the chains drill into the smooth stone floor and nearby columns for additional support, spreading out like a massive chain link spiders web. At its center, the fly, the leader of the Brothehood. Though with his obviously prodigious strength the invading titan of darkness might yet squirm free from this trap, yet any attempt to escape magically would fail utterly, consumed by the Holy Shadow at its very conception. This is, of course, not unpleasant work for the sentient cloak, but it would be so much easier for the Grand Masters artifact to feast on this enemies strength if it could find an opening. Anomaly would just have to create one.

At this thought, the fallen ones wicked smile widens, threatening to remove the top of his pale head. A soft hiss of steam presages the draconian visage of the Anomalist helm slotting into place, starting from his neck and flowing over his face in one smooth section after another. Nine horns curl in nine directions while a single crimson eye opens to join the two set deep in his helm. The hoop of a cross flares, a holy light, as it encircles the alien looking eye set in the forehead of the helm.

Ankh and halo glowing, blaack and white, lines of crimson energy racing through his armor, Anomaly spreads his arms wide bringing the Corruptions systems fully online. To an outside observer it may appear at first as if he intends to embrace the this invader. But it is Deaths embrace that the Grand Master has in store for ToroMor. Slots open on various part of Arrad's Corruption, unveiling row after row of jet black missiles, gun turrets, and buzz-saw bladed discs.

Bound by chains that consume every exertion of dark magic, it will be difficult for the titan of evil to dodge the wall of destruction that looms before him. With a shudder and an explosion missiles are launched, gun barrels blaze, and blades slice through the air with a high pitched whine. A destructive wall of scientifically propelled death. An ultimatum of annihilation singing in the tones of screeching metal. It is possible that this battle may be over before it truly has a chance to begin.

[ToroMor]

In an exposure of insolence, Toromor watches the magic links as they surround him closer. Freezing him with their cold light, they weave a deadly web around him. Obviously, Anomaly seems to launch his first offence. Yet, Mor doesn't move. Deep inside, he grows hope. After aeons of disappointments, this could be the first opponent to deliver a good fight. And while he ponders, the chains fully encompass him and nail him to the floor with an iron grip.

In the same instant, the dark giant seems to awake from his short slumber. Time to put their determination to trial. Slowly, he lifts his left foot. The bonds firmly press against the movement, but gradually bend. Gleaming in magic intensity, they desperately cling together. A deep growl emanates from Mor's hellish throat, intensifying as he pushes harder and harder. The chains moan and squeal. At that moment, the Dark One's strength exceeds the wildest imaginations. Chains buckle and burst. With a rumble, he finishes his first, heavy step. Boom. Holy bounds immediately tie his boot back to the ground. His mind is focused. Onward. Right foot. Muscle pylons press forward. My mother was darkness. Chains expand, chains explode. Another step. My father was the nil. Chains weave and wind. Boom. I am war. Boom. Boom. I am wrath. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The demonstration is spectacular. Toromor's physical powers are of eldritch magnitude. With a violent pull of his arms, he tears down the holy cobweb, scattering its winding pieces throughout the hall and trampling them down. Chains cut deep into pillars and rip out stony chunks as they are brutally derived of their fastenings. Although Mor moves slowly, there is a vigorous vibe in his demeanour. The strength that he exhibits is free from all magic enhancements, it is... raw. To the beholder, he appears as the incorporation of unrelenting willpower, as an incarnate force of nature - or better: of anti-nature. And in this absoluteness lies majesty.

Anomaly opens fire. A plethora of projectiles hits the Dark Christ. He feels the shattering impact of the metal. His magic protection is faint and disturbed by the holy shadow. Toromor holds back. Not intensifying his dark shield, he lets the hail of bullets penetrate his aura and batter his armour. He has come for a real fight, not to play magic games. Stubborn, he presses forward while hell breaks loose on him. Although the black dragon's skin, from which the armour was created, is equally resistant to magical and physical attacks, the sheer mass of projectiles severely ruptures it. Its surface is wrecked and parts of it are blown away. Sharp splinters pierce the thick skin of Mor. His demonic blood fumes and besmears his figure. And fire and smoke and shrieking shrapnels are everywhere.

Finally, the smoke engulfs both fighters and hinders their sight. Anomaly still shoots like a madman at the dark silhouette in front of him. But step by step, it draws nearer. Then it suddenly stops. Out from the smoke, lurid eyes stare in carmine light. A crude bass, louder than all explosions, bellows:

"You fight like a girl!"

From within the cloud of reek, where holy links wallow in blood, Toromor attacks in blazing fury. His armour and body form a horrific sight of havoc. But all the more, his anger and bloodlust are incited. Holding his hammer high, he storms at his opponent, blatantly ignoring all impacts. Driven by muscle streaks that put steel strings to shame, 1000 pounds of steel grind down on the Anomalist.

[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.

[ToroMor]

Hard breaths swell the massive chest of Toromor as the first rush of battle frenzy slightly abates. His diabolic heart beats like a kettledrum. Pestilent fumes ascend from his wounds, emanated by venomous blood. The smaller cracks in his thick skin start to heal, while some of the more severe cuts continue to bleed. Metallic splinters stick deep in his demonic flesh and cause constant pain. Yet not so much pain that he would not enjoy it.

His opponent has avoided an exchange of blows and instead ruined Mor's formidable hammer. Dropping the useless handle, he looks above. Anomaly has disappeared, probably not for long, since his mad laughter echoes throughout the hall. At a glance it seems that the demolished parts of the interior had been magically repaired. Good, this will spare him from recollecting the artworks out of his memory. After the enemy's defeat, an army of busy gnomes will flood the fortress, put everything of interest in handy boxes, and transport it to the Dark Citadel, just as it happened in so many strongholds before.

Only now, the dark colossus realizes that he stands amidst the circle of pillars. Somehow, they seem to react to his presence. Are they even absorbing his blood? Now, whatever they might be, that could hardly be a good idea. With the still resounding laughter, Toromor feels his anger returning to its former degree. This place has not seen his true wrath yet!

All at once, the silent Anomalist sinks from above like an archangel of demise. He wields his sword, the Blood Reaver, and brings it down in a graceful, deadly arc. That is the moment Mor has been waiting for so long: to cross swords with a perhaps decent opponent! Month Morra Morrigu howls out of its sheath and into the iron fist of the wicked Christ. In unrestrained voracity, it sweats out malignant spirits that hiss around, in search for a victim to infect. The blade glows in a spooky green shimmer and shrieks like an orgasming whore in its expectation of gorging a bloated soul.

Mor lets the rage take back control. Again, the everlasting stormwinds in his soul arise to abhorrent velocity. The reflections fade away. On nightly wings, his conscious mind flies towards the black torrent of his fury - and is swallowed as a whole. All his thoughts, his emotions, all his existence melt into an alloy of bleak destruction, attested by a savage bawl.

This unworthy creature dares to face him? It is doomed! No one stands in the way of the Dark Christ, no one! He will crush this infidel like an insect and feed his shreds to the dogs! He will slit open this carcass like a pig, rip out the quivering heart with his bare hands and squash it between his teeth!

Without the slightest attempt to parry or dodge, taking no notice of his opponent's approaching weapon, he slashes at his foe with a straight, devastating blow.

He does not care for wounds; he does not care to be hit. Everything is gone. He is one with the battle. He has become the battle. He is death, dancing and laughing on the edge of his sword.

[Anomaly]

Whistling through the air, the Blood Reaver clashes with Month Morra Morrigu. The massive broadsword and kris blade meet in a shower of sparks that is only the beginning of a more stunning struggle. Still suspended in mid-air, Anomaly is suddenly awash in a back draft of vermilion light. A similar light moves over ToroMor, though his visage is instead suffused with a pale celadon hued light. A massive aura springs from each blade and in the instant they bite into one another a thousand thousand souls war with the lives stolen from a thousand thousand slain. Lightnings crackle and the sheer force of the conflict drives all air from the Keep as the energy expands to every wall and rages through the very stones of the tower itself.

As the mighty spirits of these vicious sentient weapons surges through the Keep, the Pillars react more violently than ever before. The rhythmic pulsing gives way to a low hum that slowly rises in volume. Each Pillar crackles with energy, one after the other, until the Pillar of Balance gives off a blast of black lightning. With a crack, an almost intangible wall of energy weaves its way between each pillar, forming a perfect circular enclosure. Air rushes back into the Keep with a rumble of thunder as the warring energies of the blades are at last contained. Perhaps contained is the wrong word...rather it is obvious they are channeled into this new manifestation of the Pillars power.

Is this what Anomaly has been angling for all along? Is this the fruits of his grand design? Then why is it as he strains against his enemies considerable power, that a stream of bright arterial blood streams from the corners of his mouth? Thrashed and shaken repeatedly by the waves of force battering his armor, the Anomalist's cool exterior begins to crack. Veins throb and glowing blood shot eyes bulge, giving birth to branches of lightning arching towards star-like pupils. It’s clear that if this keeps up, even with his armors enhancing effects, Anomaly’s body will not be able to handle the stress placed upon it.

It would seem that even though the crackling energy laced between the Pillars may serve to keep his enemy and his power trapped, Anomaly is now just as ensnared within the circle. A glorious bird of prey caged with a fiend of the pit. With each passing second it seems less and less likely that he can continue to endure this struggle. ToroMor's strength is unrelenting, his physical power absolute. Servo's in the Corruption armor shriek their misery. Suddenly, the vicious assault reaches its climax, the wailing souls of a thousand slain and the warring lives of a thousand conquered visibly manifest and with one great shout, the two swords break free in a blast of solid force. Neither, it seems, were sufficiently capable of sinking its teeth into the other. All this...from the first crossing of blades.

The force of the swords suddenly breaking their lock has its effect. Grounded as he is, ToroMor will most likely take the brunt of the force with ease. Anomaly, on the other hand, is catapulted away from the Dark Christ and sent spinning end over end away from his foe. One second it seems he will slam into the Pillar of Balance, the next his feet touch the dark stone lightly, gracefully. From beneath his cloak a pair of massive raven wings spread wide to aid in maintaining the fallen ones balance. Glorious ebon feathers shiver as the magnificent wings give a gentle pulse, allowing the Grand Master to hold his position and settle into it, digging in his heels and the clawed fingers of his left hand. He glares down at his enemy with such hatred it becomes a physical presence in its own right. He wipes the blood dribbling onto his chin with the back of his right hand. He glances at the bright substance staining his gauntlet, than spits, sending a small amount of his blood into the center of the circle.

As soon as the droplets strike the octogram carved into the floor it ignites in a blinding flash of blood light. The lay lines of power explode, sending a wave of sharp scarlet light pulsing outward in every direction. The circuitry that laces through the mosaic of mutilated bodies sizzles to life. With a dull creak and low moan, the bodies twitch into activity. The corpses move jerkily at first, like bad stop motion, but slowly they writhe with more fluid movements. Some appear to be wailing their grief, others writhing in ecstasy, while still others seem to weep silently in their tombs of display. A chilling smile twists the Anomalist blood stained lips once more as he gazes, like some obscene vulture perched at a crossroads on the expanse of corpses all around. The Grand Master gestures with his sword at the walls, and in a calm, clear voice states.

“Mark well your future, writ so boldly on the wall. This fate I promise to you. When I'm done with you, what little remains of your hollowed shell will become part of our tapestry."

Rage and hatred boil beneath the thin sheet of icy calm those words represent, manifest as a slight tremor in the last few words. The claws of his left hand dig deeper into the Pillar of Balance aw the ankh carved into his helmet glows an eyeball searing white. Ten points of light spark to life from this glow, and quickly swell into ten orbs of light that swirl around the Grand Master. They whistle through the air with a soft chime, these orbs of holy light, and then swiftly move to orbit the Dark Christ instead. They circle faster and faster, until they finally collapse from all direction on the single central point of the spell...the Dark Christ very heart.

With a roar of challenge issued from a mouth flecked with blood tainted spittle, the fallen angel explodes from his perch, Reaver blade clenched tight in both hands. This time he dips low to the ground, skimming the glowing stones, aiming a rising diagonal slash to sweep from ToroMor's right leg to his left arm. The attack is timed to come in conjunction with the explosion of the holy orbs. Perhaps in this way he hopes to distract his enemy long enough to land a crippling blow.

[ToroMor]

On the shores of nowhere, black meets black - and darkness melts with darkness. Creeping shadows on a lost horizon. Two spawns of the void - yet, nothing but void. Fading mists of a strange illusion. Tumbling through the swamps of time, they fight a desolate battle.

But they fight with a vengeance.

---

Performing a wide bow, a crimson lightning cuts at Toromor, like the scythe of the reaper. Deadly orbs of energy dart at him and long to consume the Dark One's core with their illuminated intensity.

As time freezes.

The mind of Toromor is a sunless pit, only lit by the sudden flashes of an everlasting thunderstorm. Thousand voices scream in madness, each one of them an incarnation of doom. Yelling out of the bottomless dark, they form a horrible pandemonium of lunacy.

Cut him in two! Drink his blood! Tear his throat out! Bite off his head! Bath in his entrails! Ahahahaha! Muhahahaa! Smash his face! Kill! Destroy! Ahahahaha! Wipe it out, wipe it all out! Ahahahaha! Aaaaaaaaaaahhhh!

Among them, a spooky shadow walks down a steep and narrow stairway. The outline of the figure suggests that it wears a cloak but is otherwise perfectly indistinct. The murky loner makes no sounds as he descends deeper and deeper into the bottomless abyss, surrounded by the bloodcurdling screams. At last, he arrives at a small and artless door. A tiny key unites with a rusty lock.

With the tone of a giant gong resounding under water, a dark portal opens. It leads from the inside of the Dark Lord to his outside, connecting the world in which he stands, with the heart of darkness - a plane of reality that is just the other side of existence. It is the nothingness that is integral to everything; and on the other side of the door, it swirls in its purest form. It swirls - and flows through the gate.

Waves of darkness fill the circle of Pillars. It appears as if the air turns into black jelly, shaking in wobbling ripples. All movements appear strangely smooth and deliberate, like they are covered in a silk pall. Yet they seem to struggle against a tenacious space that is occupied with thick and choking blackness. A mortal man would be reminded of an escape dream; or some others, of a near-death experience.

Where the holy orbs meet the dark force, the picture is a wholly different one. Like wave-breakers, they discerp the black front. They continue their way towards