The feline smirked and resheathed the blades before turning around and walking into the arena underworks, the halls that he longed for, devoid from light and life... the place he loved and hated at the same time. He followed the path that led northwards, hours passed as he walked through the dark, damp sewersystems.. and finally, as night began to set in, he reached his home, the Onyx Halls.
He entered through the underworks, quickly ascending the curving stairwells that led to the hallways. The hallways where crafted from pure onyx, the same material as his blades where, and seemed to stretch on forever. But somehow the feline knew precisely where to go, and turned down the south corridor, and soon down a passage to the east. He passed more then one construct one his way, each with a demeanor cold as ice and a soul unlike any other alive. Each of the constructs was crafted from the same material, adamantine, and seemed fully emotionless. They had the abilty to feel and think, but many chose to live their lives as empty shells, devoid of feeling and emotion, and in the service of one overlord.
Deep amids the onyx halls the feline came upon a chamber, within it's center stood a ruby throne. He opened his eyes and looked around, as if it was the first time for him to do so. Around him he saw a chamber that seemed to be created from purest deep crystal, with onyx to enforce it after a few inches. The room had four other occupants, and somehow he knew their names. To the north of the chamber stood Arvandor, to his west stood Seere, to his south stood Aikanaro, and to his east stood Ohta. Each of the constructs was crafted from a dark steel, and he knew that item too, adamantine it was called.
Arvandor bore a shining blade on his back, a greatsword that shimmered with the magic of ages past, as he looked at the weapon he could almost swear that it gave of sparks. Seere bore a bow that seemed to radiate with to power to slay the living in a single strike, the bow radiated with a red light, something akin to the light of a burning torch. Aikanaro bore a warhammer in his hands, the warhammer burned with the flames of a forge, as if longing for war. Ohta bore a bow in his hands, which seemed to cast of an dim light, but at the same time seemed to love life around him.
And soon, as he stood there, amids the constructs that where his true family, he shifted and shrunk down to his 4'4" stature, his eyes shifting from their blue to black, the sclera shifting at the same time to match the newfound color. His fur darkened and turned black as midnight, and a single red marking, resembling lightning, appeared on his forehead. And soon he started to remember... his name, his truename, Azreal Origen, the angel of death reborn, the reaper of life and destroyer of souls. He walked over to the center of the chamber and sat down in the throne, allowing his weary body to rest in the rays of moonlight, revigorating him, but at the same time feeding upon his very soul and the soul that he had claimed today.
Topic: the battle arena (Read 6919 times)