#artashir

Artashir roared with a vivid cry. After years of docile peace and tranquility that took the world in a sense of order, it is on the tether of breaking once more. However, he kept this war to himself. All for him. No one shall taste the bitterness of loss again. No one will know the evils that creep and gnaws for them. Nor the pleasure of exterminating it with sword and valor.

As his stolen relic swept left and right. Its fell scream of pleasure cleaving material flesh like wet paper. These aliens of Order were coming to take his home and convert it into a thing of perfection. A constant clockwork of dull expectation and hierarchy. Never to change. Never to grow. Never to be. 

He couldn’t let it happen. He will not!

Bringing the Scythe of his arch-enemy to bare, its corruption blackened his hands and heart singing for his enemies’ ultimatium. Nevermind the physical change he endured when accepting this most unlikely of Pacts, the warrior only ever wanted was peace. A peace that his bloodline fought for generations after generations. And he was tired. Tired and nearly went mad when it all seemed over.

Artashir Patius, Son of Brodrick Patius and Shada al-Muhtal, Father of Seven worthy heirs to his dream, Balancer of the Three Chosen, High Chief of the Rogue; he saught only the end and now he engaged in one last war that he hoped brought his warrior’s final glory. 

By his patron’s promise, his loved ones will not notice. He is but a shadow of their thoughts. Let it be so - he is a Rogue and solitude is his inevitable path.

This he accepts as he stood before a new wave of the winged warriors of Chaos’ stagnant twin. They were such uniform yet strange things that brought a horror numb to him now. Chaos. Order. It was all the same, such was the important of balance.

For now, he shall fight for the prior.

The lion, garbed in his silver chitin of armour with the shadowy cloak of wings and tattered robes flowing like ruinous smoke, pointed Zerata’s Scythe forward. At his flank, the legion of Thralls charged with shrill cries from their ravenous vulture-like heads and twitching scimitars to meet their rivals in this corridor of dimensions.