Terminus: Death of Laurentius/Mordeaux

The deephold had found an occupier, now. A return, perhaps for the last time, of the resident Noctifer and Champion. For on some days ago had come Laurentius, speaking to none, shuffling as a puppet pulled on ferromantic and sanguine strings, to venture within the sanctum. To drag himself across the carpet as he had so many years ago, and collapse, finally, to rest.

Dead lungs catch and seize as they gasp for breath, agonal movements that had lasted for days and nights. Eyes unseeing behind, as cologne steadily wore away from its overpowering nature and revealed the unmistakable smell of rot beneath.

His time was nearing its end, a shell no longer supported by that core, wisps of essence curling from his surface as his shape lay faintly distorted. Flesh sloughing from bones, the sluggish crawl of dead blood in his veins. Thoughts drifting, barely coherent, as he almost watches himself lie there in ruin.

Not from the wounds of battle, no, not this time- the strain of such, some infusion of life, had pulled him together enough to make it back 'home.' The black soul husk was finishing its work by degrees, and his vessel's binding wards were steadily coming undone under that lifetime's work.

He breathes in gurgling wheezes, more from habit than need, as he feels it. Blood pooling from collapsing veins inside his skin. Teeth exposed to the air as his cheeks and other soft flesh had simply fallen off, a tongue sliced from broken enamel that refused to mend.

Yet he had done it. One more. Then one more. Then one more. Even if he couldn't stop the hunger, the impulse, the urge, even if much of it was burned in imparting his 'gift' to two more youths... he had gathered the last scrap of essence demanded by his lord.
(Laurentius of Terminus)
Every day, the ritual advanced in its passage... Whether Terminus had finally achieved a breakthrough, or had simply scratched the surface was unknown to them. Though, the confidence in their inevitable success was without question. So often did his emissary return with a bounty of Entropic Essence -- with the residual ether of mortal sin stowed within their vessel. However, in these moments? They, themselves, were proving more withered... Wounded... Slowly being unmade, and triggering a resonance of entropy in-and-of themselves.

It was the process of redying... A necessary step in a transcendiary endeavor to surpass the living, and even the common undead. Mordeaux was not likely to be the only of the few across history to do this, but still amongst the few -- especially should he had succeeded.

Terminus would prove amongst the fewest of ilk, both capable of necromantic practices, while claiming the coveted prize of immortality by supernatural means. It begged the question, had he already managed to achieve some magnitude of Lichdom, in preserving Mordeaux beyond this stage? Just how much further was there to go, by mortal-borne theorizations?

Laurentius was tired...
Laurentius was spent...
Laurentius... Was... Dying...

-- Yet, he had returned.

"The endeavor is soon to be complete... This, shall prove useful in the final hour."

It passed by them, like a breeze. A dreary chill that sought to resonate past the cloth and armor, and rend the essence from their vessel, to wisp away into the air. Terminus had taken an incorporeal form for the time being, taking it upon himself to satisfy his curiosity. To know, what it was that finally brought Mordeaux to such an extreme state of affairs beyond the ritual.

There was a witness to this scene... The current-Maladictus, looking upon Laurentius with an expression of sadness taken upon their visage. While they were amongst the few that knew the truth, they did not know the inner machination of the art -- of the entities involved, and their own mannerisms within.

They were human...
They bore worldly attachments...

''My lord... This is the worst that I've seen him... Is it true, that his final hour is nigh? If so, I shall prepare arrangements for a proper ceremony.''


No words seemed to be openly spoken -- clearly something was telepathically transmitted, for the Maledictus simply nodded, and took to a kneel.
''I understand, may your bidding be done.''

(Etheric Presence)

Spent.
Used up.
Exhausted.

These were terms to describe the vessel of Laurentius, of Mordeaux. The body had run its course over the years, through over a hundred battles and the piling of wounds.

Lichdom was perhaps a strong word for what was becoming, for Mordeaux was already dead long ago and forced to live, not a necromancer binding their soul to this plane. His Lord's favorite tool, to be put back together after its parts were broken.

A heart beating slowly, the plague parasite nourishing off the decaying corpse to sustain itself. That broodmother-symbiote would endure, even as the vessel crumbled under the weight of the world's decay.

He had done what was necessary, fulfilled his purpose. His last battles, three held in the forests, were a haze of instinct and command. Barely lucid, operating only on hunger, empty inside and out. Two infected only from impulse, a mind empty of thoughts. Yet through it all, that inexorable command drove him. That dark devotion pushed him forward, even as he fell to ruin on the field.

The hour drew near. Many of this nation were sad for the loss of their 'champion,' the undead who cared only on the surface for their lives. Their 'holy warrior,' an icon of their people soon to fade.

The public story, of course, was that he would have retired. Taken his leave, his pension, his body steadily faltering as the gift of magic faded and withered from the strain on a non-magi's body barely restored from critical wounds.

Better than the truth, the real knowledge of what lay beneath as the lifestream steadily scours free the flesh that should have died. Seeking his soul, to return it to his true rest and cleansing...

But such was not to be his fate.

For a soul held in sway to The End would never know rest by such a peaceful transition to death. Were he to be stolen away to where it belonged, malignant spirit obliterated in the heart of a star, it would be through force. Not through this... withering.

Human attachments. If the undead were conscious and aware, he would feel disgust at the idea. Swimming in that haze of pain and remembrance, of instinct and hunger, of devotion and fatalism... memories of his decades of profane life swirl in his rotting mind. Memories of war, of violence, of countless battles. Of hunting, hunger, necessity. An existence in service, a commitment to the call even when it asked for his end. The ceaseless dance of decay and depravity that was his meat and wine...

Whatever was born from this would be something else, for those three battles were the last the world would see of the face known as 'Mordeaux.' At least, for now until others learned the truth. Until they looked upon this new flesh and knew its true name.

No more hiding for him.
No more pretending.
No more humanity.

He drifts... as the flesh marches on to its promised end.
The last strings steadily falling free, heeding the siren's call of the black soul husk and nightmarish vessel that await him.

His prison.
His tomb.
His damnation, met with open arms.
(Laurentius of Terminus)
Long ago... A Blacklight ritual had carved its way over the isle. It had stripped the very glory of Demonic Imperfection from Terminus' grasps as he actively carried out the transformation.

It was then, that many would come to recognize in his approaches -- That Hel, was here...

For quite the time, Hel was vanquished, sealed away -- back whence it belonged. Terminus, however, did not...
He simply festered, changed, evolved in new ways that seamlessly combined vestiges of his original demonic origins, with his new beast vessel. Through magics, and ancient knowledge, it would be tempered, transformed, manipulated until it no longer resembled its former self, nor any common beast.

Hel was no longer here...
The End, was...
Sin fed him all the same...
Without need for intervention of the Marqui.
Countless manipulative endeavors from an olde as Abendrot, through the times of Ordo Plaga, Skarnfel, and even Atrellya -- Where those amongst Meranthe would further build upon his constant advance...

Until the construction of the very first instances of Antefinem...
All of it, would lead to this -- Or at least, these final steps.

Mordeaux had served well in this form, but he would mark the beginning of the end, of a longlived age across Meranthe.

The time for pretending was nearly run through.
The purpose for emulating humanity proved soon-to-be fulfilled.

"My Maledictus, hear my words..."

The Maledictus, still in the room, rose their head.

"Draw forth my Centricon. Bring it to me...
The time is finally at-hand."


The elder rose up to their feet, and without another word, they started on their errand. From the coffers, they would fetch this relic... To the Deephold, they'd deliver it. To do what? Was anyone's guess...
One thing was certain... Laurentius would be left to lie in rest here, until the transition between this vessel and the prepared vessel just meters away was complete.

The abomination was left to lie in a gargantuan sarcophagus-like container, a proper means of moving their dead, and easily a means of providing an excuse for Laurentius' disappearance, should retirement claims be challenged.
(Etheric Presence)