Board Thread:Random RP/@comment-26444332-20160810022256/@comment-26210095-20160810030351

Moredel Ravenfield was walking, knee deep in muck besides his master, High Inquisitor Tessarion. Amenonuhoko was strapped onto his back, blade carefully sealed so that it did not accidentally turn anybody else into crystal. Moredel was a recent initiate of the Inquisitorium. After graduating, one must spend a few years training under a senior Inquisitor. Amenonuhoko was a gift from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who... You get the idea. The Ravenfields had he'd the blade since time immemorial. Night, his Spirit Animal landed on his shoulder with a loud "caw". He could understand what the Raven was thinking, even though he could not understand his speech. "No, we cannot have food now." He answered verbally. Annoyed, he dug his claws into his shoulder, demanding attention.

Tessarion yelled at the young Acolyte "Quick! The Ollish are launching their attack."

The whole might of the Kingdom of Ollin was charging ahead. His master began a spell to fortify their arms and armor.

Moredel began to feel a pain behind his eyes, his master stopped his spell. "Are you alright, lad?" He asked, although Moredel couldn't answer. And then he felt it.

Pain.

It was as if every cell in his body was screaming, on fire. He bent to his knees, and screamed. He could feel himself grabbing the blade strapped onto his back, feel himself killing his master. He was in excruciating pain, and he felt rage towards every living thing in his path.

Onlookers would see a man, with glowing violet eyes unleash a torrent of primordial energy indiscriminately, but since he was behind Ollish lines, almost all were Ollish knights. A strange kind of firestorm was raging across the Narrows. It appeared to turn anything it touched into a crystal. Many men died that day. Lighting erupted out of his hands, wherever he struck turned to green emeralds or rubies as red as the setting sun. He was the eye of the storm, and around him was complete chaos and slaughter. A Stigma.

All of the Ollish forces are dead or in no shape to fight. Casualties among the Empire's soldiers were medium to light.