Post by kryodrache on Oct 17, 2011 19:55:12 GMT -5
((Preface: This thread is here for me to type on occurances pertaining to the character of Morbax in either character muses, events, or otherwise that were either not RPed out or would have been bad to put in an RP setting: in some sense, story-telling. Cause... story-telling in RP is boring. One person typing, everyone else staring. So it will be written here. Anything with two ** at the end of it; a phrase, a paragraph, means what was written came legitimately from RP.))
Installment 1.0 --- "Taint"
"All hail Lord Morbax! Demon Lord of Flesh and Regeneration!" **Darkhand
Spellcarver's voice rang out over the bloody, heated battle of demon against mortal. It was a commanding sound, yet proud, motivating those beasts on the field. Hundreds of gleaming, vicious demonic eyes turned towards the sound of that cry... and the figure of Morbax could be seen, approaching at a high speed. Once a reptilian, desert-dwelling anthropomorph, he had been drastically changed by the demonic taint given to him by Spellcarver. The horn-adorned, draconic black creature; lanky in form, spikes frayed across his wings, back, and tail, had been suffering more in the past few weeks than his first month or two of life in this new form. He had hoped, vainly, that he didn't have to resort to such barbarity and violence as to devour the souls of the living. After an existance of centuries, undead and commandeered by a symbiotic creature that shared his body, the healer had hoped he would no longer have to feed off of the sentient ever again.
But, he had little choice. His hunger had started to creep into his mind, corrupt his thoughts. After spending so long.. years, decades, generation after generation, just caring for the infirm, listening to their problems, dealing with the general hatred of undead... after succumbing, so many times, to hate, fear and injustice... it was a wonder he had not cracked. Taken advantage of, too many times, in his attempt to be kind and polite... he could have kept that up, were he still undead and unfeeling. But the instincts and predatory base of both demon and dragon that had been infused in him finally cut that last thread.
The lean, rough-scaled creature that bounded, leaped and sprang into that fray of blood, gore, and terror was a creature bent on desperation, starvation, rage. Everything Morbax had fought to remain, as a kind and gentle medic, was being scraped against the rough, scraggly side of a rock and a hard place, and chunks of it were starting to fall away, leaving behind nothing but the dregs of what had been struggling to fight loose from him through all this time.
A monster is created, not born.
There was a huge uproar of victorious sounding voices as living people were suddenly subdued rather than killed, and demons rushed to bring the live prey as offerings to Morbax. **Darkhand.
Morbax had landed deftly in the midst of these demons, closing in behind him, to his sides, front, until he was out of sight from the borders of this war-zone. The shouts and cries that emitted around the general terrain were now ones of surprise, shock... but always those of terror, as well. Fellow demons formed a circle around the approaching Morbax, the newest of their brothers, on the field for his first taste of sustenance. He was not from any Clan... nor had he joined any Clan, so it was unsure what could be expected of him. As Morbax had charged forward, he had felt a wild, violent rush of eagerness, hunger, that surge of adrenaline that made him briefly forget the aching pains in his chest and muscle, that pain of starvation.
But now, as the war-zone suddenly became quieter, waiting, he found himself calm. With a final bound into the zone, landing upon all fours, he started to slowly straighten up. Leathery wings trailed behind him like a cloak, the spiked tail dragging itself across rent earth. Luminescent eyes gleamed like chips of ice, glinting out of the dimly lit, smoke-filled air as he panned an appraising gaze across those surrounding him. Demons had bustled around with captured men and women to feed their little brother, and were now waiting expectantly to see which he would choose. There surely was plenty to go around. Further off on the field, fighting was still occurring... because, after all, the demons would have to watch their own backs.
But here, for now... it was deathly silent, save for those few people struggling, uttering curses or sobbing. Morbax paced along the ring of this circle, hooked claws sinking into the loam, lips twisted into an idle snarl. His eyes were narrowed... lids heavy. The last vestiges of desperate restraint were still tugging at him... almost as though the original Morbax was trapped in his own mind, watching in horror as his own warped body moved almost to its own will. He 'watched' as he stopped in front of a particularly bulky man, arms twisted behind him by an even larger demon. Watched as the spiked, horned dragon head leaned forward and sniffed once. Felt that rush of delight, like one smelling something reminiscent to home, washing through the body like fresh, clean water, only to replace it with a deep, ravenous longing.
But that original Morbax flickered and disappeared as a spiked arm suddenly thrust forward. But instead of striking the struggling man in front of him, Morbax's arm seemed to reach through him, like one would reach into fog. There was no blood, no parting of flesh... his arm had simply become like smoke. Great, curling black wisps encircled arm and shoulder, appearing ethereal, so dark that it sucked the light in around it until the limb seemed to be glowing in that black abyss.
This was followed shortly by a shriek, and a howl of abject pain, the man jerking in the grasp of his demonic captor. His back arched, and he lashed at his restraints. Morbax only snarled in reply; he had grasped tightly on something, and was starting to pull his arm back. He was wrenching the man's core out of his very chest... his spiritual core, his soul. This was proven the moment his clawed hand appeared back out beyond flesh and blood... beams like the sun peeking through the clouds emanated from between Morbax's fingers, a vibrant gold and silver. It was visible only for an instant before Morbax plunged it into his own chest, half hunching forward in the process as though to brace himself. ...But it was unnecessary.
The man whose soul had been taken fell limp in his captor's arms. Not dead, simply..... empty. After all... a creature without a soul was a husk... it would act only on instinct, now. It would not be able to think for itself, or reason. It did not know right from wrong, would not be able to write or read, or sing, or talk. Morbax had essentially turned this man into a zombie.
Simultaneously, as the man fell slack... Morbax experienced a wonderful sensation. A delightful feeling, centering at the heart, spreading throughout his body like a burst of warmth after spending too long out in a snowy area; a thrill that bubbled up beneath him, lifted him up. It straightened his back, filled his lungs, and even his eyes flashed a vibrant, white-blue light. And thus, was the death of Morbax, and the birth of a Demon Lord.
Every captured mortal that had been offered to Morbax met the same fate as that male shortly thereafter. The silence of the circle was soon replaced by the laughter of demons, jeering, as they found their captors little more than living rag dolls. Morbax sprang along the inner circle, his actions becoming more and more cruel with each soul he took... from a relatively gentle wrench out of the chest, to a forced rip, to rib cages being torn apart and the souls devoured by a creature reminiscent to a ravenous wolf.
Morbax didn't leave the area once he had been fully sated, however. After he had taken all he needed, with surplus, he straightened up... bloodied, lips drawn back in a fanged, toothy grin, and turned to the battlefield. As the Black Court turned to power back into the fray against those who had wronged Spellcarver, Morbax spread his spiked wings and launched into combat as well. For the first time, he found himself intentionally grappling with another, with the intent to kill. He had been a demon for a while now... but only now did he feel truly alive. The coppery scent of blood permeated the air until he thought it would stay with him forever, seeming to stain the sky bloodred. The feel of warm flesh compressing under his clawed hands, hanging in shreds like cloth from horn and spike; the heated intimacy of it all...
He'd resembled a brother of the Court for a while now. But it was there on that battlefield that he actually became one.
Installment 1.0 --- "Taint"
"All hail Lord Morbax! Demon Lord of Flesh and Regeneration!" **Darkhand
Spellcarver's voice rang out over the bloody, heated battle of demon against mortal. It was a commanding sound, yet proud, motivating those beasts on the field. Hundreds of gleaming, vicious demonic eyes turned towards the sound of that cry... and the figure of Morbax could be seen, approaching at a high speed. Once a reptilian, desert-dwelling anthropomorph, he had been drastically changed by the demonic taint given to him by Spellcarver. The horn-adorned, draconic black creature; lanky in form, spikes frayed across his wings, back, and tail, had been suffering more in the past few weeks than his first month or two of life in this new form. He had hoped, vainly, that he didn't have to resort to such barbarity and violence as to devour the souls of the living. After an existance of centuries, undead and commandeered by a symbiotic creature that shared his body, the healer had hoped he would no longer have to feed off of the sentient ever again.
But, he had little choice. His hunger had started to creep into his mind, corrupt his thoughts. After spending so long.. years, decades, generation after generation, just caring for the infirm, listening to their problems, dealing with the general hatred of undead... after succumbing, so many times, to hate, fear and injustice... it was a wonder he had not cracked. Taken advantage of, too many times, in his attempt to be kind and polite... he could have kept that up, were he still undead and unfeeling. But the instincts and predatory base of both demon and dragon that had been infused in him finally cut that last thread.
The lean, rough-scaled creature that bounded, leaped and sprang into that fray of blood, gore, and terror was a creature bent on desperation, starvation, rage. Everything Morbax had fought to remain, as a kind and gentle medic, was being scraped against the rough, scraggly side of a rock and a hard place, and chunks of it were starting to fall away, leaving behind nothing but the dregs of what had been struggling to fight loose from him through all this time.
A monster is created, not born.
There was a huge uproar of victorious sounding voices as living people were suddenly subdued rather than killed, and demons rushed to bring the live prey as offerings to Morbax. **Darkhand.
Morbax had landed deftly in the midst of these demons, closing in behind him, to his sides, front, until he was out of sight from the borders of this war-zone. The shouts and cries that emitted around the general terrain were now ones of surprise, shock... but always those of terror, as well. Fellow demons formed a circle around the approaching Morbax, the newest of their brothers, on the field for his first taste of sustenance. He was not from any Clan... nor had he joined any Clan, so it was unsure what could be expected of him. As Morbax had charged forward, he had felt a wild, violent rush of eagerness, hunger, that surge of adrenaline that made him briefly forget the aching pains in his chest and muscle, that pain of starvation.
But now, as the war-zone suddenly became quieter, waiting, he found himself calm. With a final bound into the zone, landing upon all fours, he started to slowly straighten up. Leathery wings trailed behind him like a cloak, the spiked tail dragging itself across rent earth. Luminescent eyes gleamed like chips of ice, glinting out of the dimly lit, smoke-filled air as he panned an appraising gaze across those surrounding him. Demons had bustled around with captured men and women to feed their little brother, and were now waiting expectantly to see which he would choose. There surely was plenty to go around. Further off on the field, fighting was still occurring... because, after all, the demons would have to watch their own backs.
But here, for now... it was deathly silent, save for those few people struggling, uttering curses or sobbing. Morbax paced along the ring of this circle, hooked claws sinking into the loam, lips twisted into an idle snarl. His eyes were narrowed... lids heavy. The last vestiges of desperate restraint were still tugging at him... almost as though the original Morbax was trapped in his own mind, watching in horror as his own warped body moved almost to its own will. He 'watched' as he stopped in front of a particularly bulky man, arms twisted behind him by an even larger demon. Watched as the spiked, horned dragon head leaned forward and sniffed once. Felt that rush of delight, like one smelling something reminiscent to home, washing through the body like fresh, clean water, only to replace it with a deep, ravenous longing.
But that original Morbax flickered and disappeared as a spiked arm suddenly thrust forward. But instead of striking the struggling man in front of him, Morbax's arm seemed to reach through him, like one would reach into fog. There was no blood, no parting of flesh... his arm had simply become like smoke. Great, curling black wisps encircled arm and shoulder, appearing ethereal, so dark that it sucked the light in around it until the limb seemed to be glowing in that black abyss.
This was followed shortly by a shriek, and a howl of abject pain, the man jerking in the grasp of his demonic captor. His back arched, and he lashed at his restraints. Morbax only snarled in reply; he had grasped tightly on something, and was starting to pull his arm back. He was wrenching the man's core out of his very chest... his spiritual core, his soul. This was proven the moment his clawed hand appeared back out beyond flesh and blood... beams like the sun peeking through the clouds emanated from between Morbax's fingers, a vibrant gold and silver. It was visible only for an instant before Morbax plunged it into his own chest, half hunching forward in the process as though to brace himself. ...But it was unnecessary.
The man whose soul had been taken fell limp in his captor's arms. Not dead, simply..... empty. After all... a creature without a soul was a husk... it would act only on instinct, now. It would not be able to think for itself, or reason. It did not know right from wrong, would not be able to write or read, or sing, or talk. Morbax had essentially turned this man into a zombie.
Simultaneously, as the man fell slack... Morbax experienced a wonderful sensation. A delightful feeling, centering at the heart, spreading throughout his body like a burst of warmth after spending too long out in a snowy area; a thrill that bubbled up beneath him, lifted him up. It straightened his back, filled his lungs, and even his eyes flashed a vibrant, white-blue light. And thus, was the death of Morbax, and the birth of a Demon Lord.
Every captured mortal that had been offered to Morbax met the same fate as that male shortly thereafter. The silence of the circle was soon replaced by the laughter of demons, jeering, as they found their captors little more than living rag dolls. Morbax sprang along the inner circle, his actions becoming more and more cruel with each soul he took... from a relatively gentle wrench out of the chest, to a forced rip, to rib cages being torn apart and the souls devoured by a creature reminiscent to a ravenous wolf.
Morbax didn't leave the area once he had been fully sated, however. After he had taken all he needed, with surplus, he straightened up... bloodied, lips drawn back in a fanged, toothy grin, and turned to the battlefield. As the Black Court turned to power back into the fray against those who had wronged Spellcarver, Morbax spread his spiked wings and launched into combat as well. For the first time, he found himself intentionally grappling with another, with the intent to kill. He had been a demon for a while now... but only now did he feel truly alive. The coppery scent of blood permeated the air until he thought it would stay with him forever, seeming to stain the sky bloodred. The feel of warm flesh compressing under his clawed hands, hanging in shreds like cloth from horn and spike; the heated intimacy of it all...
He'd resembled a brother of the Court for a while now. But it was there on that battlefield that he actually became one.
