Lilac eyes remained unblinking to the horror. It was acknowledged. It would be processed emotionally for what it meant later, when Abalon had the luxury to indulge in sensitivity. For now, duty to his field, to his comrades, ruled the framework of thoughts he was caged by. A cage of necessary discipline and focus. A cage fashioned for knowledge of the liability of emotions when it came to the domain of Death. A cage that protected him and fashioned useful response from his intellect and power to serve the Order. Such were the demands of one who walked within the fields of death, who were determined not to be corrupted by the tremoring of a heart disturbed by such depictions as this.
The Pursuant of Death floated inches above the gory detail, his pure white robes a defiance to the crimson that smeared in stories of bitter ends. He floated upon an arcane disc the same lilac tone as his eyes that shimmered now in low throbs in time with his calm heartbeat. He remained unfettered from the bloody ground. He remained a pillar of
elven composure as he considered how his comrades must be feeling at the prospect of such gory details to be transversed, such grim portents of lives snuffed out in outrageous detail. His amber necklace had dim light about it as it fed necrotic information unto him, the spiraling life energy and decaying forces that lingered to their departed frames tried to communicate to him their pain and suffering.
Abalon did not silence them. He breathed calmly, undisturbed by their declarations. He would be sympathetic when the day was won, when the rituals of cleansing and calming of the dead could be administered. For now, his frame was still, his hand upon his staff, the floating disc carrying him as he took his place in the formation of the riders of Anathaeum.
Many a valiant effort was brought down low by all too sympathetic senses, he thought. The stench of death, the miasma that robbed determination, and the diorama of brutal putrid death. Such were the hallmarks of his domain, hallmarks to defy in his own practice.
But Abalon did not fear that he needed to deny his comrades the touch of trepidation by such close proximity to the viscera and decay on display here. No, he thought, they needed to appreciate that things were to get worse the closer they got closer to Glorphain's host. Abalon knew he could settle his people's stomachs, to channel a zone of clean air for them to breathe easy, to soften the scene and render it more hospitable to all too raw senses.
But such would be a disservice. An energy spent to coddle, instead of truly protect. Had they civilians, he might have indulged in such compassions. But their cause was to fight and cleanse.
Abalon's remained disciplined in his consignment of compassion to his comrades. They were hardened to such things, they would understand why he did not lift his ossified hands to render this scene less outrageous to the condition of being all too alive. Even if the squires protested when he denied them such comforts, the more experienced had an understanding that life was hard.
And death had no comforts.
Abalon had been educated by ruinous minds who ripped humanity from corpses with a wide bloody brush, so this current display was a confirmation of the all too common dereliction to morality when it came to his pursuit. His thoughts went to the nature of the opponent they all shared here. A typical glutton to the travesty of humanity when beset by the allures of putrescence. Abalon walked a different path than the common necromancer. He knew the purity of discipline, the refusal to enslave the domain of death to serve necrotic ends. His role was to protect, to channel, to rebuff, and to deny the dominion of unlife it's voracious and all too often, gory, appetite.
He rehearsed all the possible and common avenues of destruction his colleagues in specialty might summon to bring them down low. Desecration of the flesh, necrotic waves of energy that might crash upon them. Hosts that might be summoned. Abalon knew them all from his time learning from the greatest and most depraved necromancers in the land. And how he had rejected their intent, replacing it with noble purpose amongst his comrades, he was one of the few well armed to redirect that black advance of magic.
His lips moved silently as he prepared counter spell after counterspell, to redirect necrotic energy, his elven mind working on multiple spells preparations at once even as he concentrated upon the floating disc that did propel him closer to that disgusting mass of flesh and ambition. Such was his power. Such was his to command and provide service. No talent with blade. But fully submerged in the theory, practices, traditions and defiance of death was his virtue to render into deeds this dark day.
Abalon heard the declaration of the Captain.
He blinked but once and heavily, holding the blackness for a moment which was adorned with spiralling text of death magic he would command to preserve the all too mortal flesh of his comrades. Petra offered her observation.
Abalon Shallows opened his eyes and looked at his white hands, bone like, preserved from the ruination of the flesh, and siezed the air with leashes of arcane will and power. His staff became a writhing sheen of white and silver, as he assumed the role of guardian for his comrades, for his sworn brothers and sisters. His white robes were pure and deathly pale.
“
I am prepared,” his voice as water on glass, overtones of deathly magic enriching his voice, as he followed the formation and bid ready to battle his competitors in that most grave of magic families that did not forgive the slightest mistake of the flesh or mind.
Today he would betray the solidarity of death magic practitioners and drive away all foulness from the field so that a clear blow would be delivered to that most disgusting of things, the flesh turned aberration, the enslavement and denial of life, the curdling of hope, the braying laughter of humanity rendered a mockery of all nobility.
Helena Markus Glorphain Petra Darthinian