Terminus: Soul Transference Ritual - Mordeaux

[13:27] Upon approach to the isle of Antefinem, a shift in activity could immediately be noted. The increased vigilance of guardsmen patrolling the shores, and small statues of Terminus posted nigh the agricultural core of the land. It wasn't much, but word of the people's capacity to reliably produce rations of Gruel for all workers abroad was spreading as of late.

While poverty was beginning to rend its cold and unforgiving grasp upon the nation's people, they remained resolute -- For never once, had their Patron truly forsaken them. Farmers reaped the golden grains upon their fields, with expressions of hope. The current president was going through a vigorous campaign against a political rival that threatened their position of authority -- a regular occurrence as of late. Though, it left most eyes off of the underbelly of the isle -- away from the antics of Acentitus Mundus within the greatest heights of the spire.

It would seem more politically inclined characters were dissuaded from scaling it, as to ensure a more strictly faithfully-inclined ilk. Those most aligned with Terminus' ideals.

The shrine carried his presence, with clergy in tow, but to be approached by another, would draw the attention of the present-Maledictus. They would rise, before offering brief accompaniment to the arriving party, as they'd inevitably transcend beyond the barrier of the Deephold...

There, Terminus' presence was at its peak...
While he could not be visibly seen? The notable increase in ebonic smog in the air tipped most off. As for those that shared his flesh, however? It was as though the very realm at-large was unraveling before them -- For the mind could find glimpses of his own thoughts, loosely straying from his incorporeal stature. Subtle whispers of a fathomless abyss -- Once deemed demonic, now rebranded simply as the most obscure of the Occult.

"Mmmmm... I feel your presence pending, my Noctifer... You return from your hunts..."
(Etheric Presence)

[13:39] "I return with harvest... and wounds. News.

Miyashita Takeshi was at the gala, bearing another nation's colors. Emmeline refused to be ousted, though I was narrowly defeated by one of the mercenaries.

Crownforge was supplanted by men of the east, who claimed to descent from those who faced and felled Varrach. Their Daimyo defeated me narrowly.

There have been many defeats... but not all a failure." Yet all the same, in triumph or folly, essence was gathered. The Noctifer seems annoyed at his failings, but he had part of what he wanted. Even if damage was amounting, even if the patron could sense yet another mar on his flesh. A wound, deep down, etheric contamination once again taking hold of him.

Annoying.

"More proof of the need for a new vessel. The knowledge and resources gathered...

This body was human. It was what was available, and it has servedits purpose... but now, it is insufficient. Alterations made were built on foundations of humanity.

We do not have that limit now, with the corpse and the materials gathered, do we. A more perfect form can be constructed to shed my degradations and refine my purpose."

Like sharpening claws... this form was little more than the prototype, before they knew the truth of what 'perfection' really meant for an undead like him.

"I do not know how much essence is needed... but it will be done."
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[13:54] The entropic essence gathered could be sensed as one approached, but only as Laurentius spoke, was it truly explored. The etheric tendrils that sifted through the air sought to knead beyond the flesh, to siphon away what was deemed most unholy of the world. It fed into the ancient, all the while excessive presence sought to permeate throughout the rest of this damaged vessel. It seemed less akin to one prepared to further preserve them, and moreso figure out the nature of the damages incurred. After all, anything that could possibly interfere with what antics they had in store simply could not be allowed to play out.

"Your wounds are but merely a part of the process... For every victory, you siphon further entropic essences of the world at large... And with every wound incurred upon you? Your vessel loosens its enchainment upon the soul within."

Perhaps, they were right...
But Terminus hadbeen working in the background this entire time. Theorizing... Applying his incantations...
Waiting...

"You can feel it... Can't you?
A pry at the mind, to contemplate on their past endeavors, their strains, trial and tribulation throughout their apparent failings. This... fleshy coil, unwinding from your very soul... The lifestream, trying to desperately to unwind what is consistently weakened by the numbers you rage against during every hunt...

It.... Is by design..."

Was Terminus... Determined to see his own creation... Fail?... To die, even?
"It is... No different than when I pluck a soul from the very boundaries of the lifestream, to force them into the very aspects of Kraus himself, bleeding it to become the Nyctorre that this world abhors. The body you wear, is naught but another claimed creation, bled as a soul was forced within it... It stands to reason, that such can be recycled.

After all, it merely emulates -their- cycle. Their cycle of 'life'. Their cycle deemed 'Perfect'. -Their- design...

I once thought my previous creation failed... Yet, when my sights fall upon you? I can see it..."
A position in space seemed to coalesce upon itself -- Darkness clouding up, clumping together to forge an amorpheous fluid suspended in the air. It soon took shape, assuming texture, and hardened as it expanded from behind itself, revealing to be Terminus' disembodied head, with a manifesting body behind it.

"Your vessel weakens, because your soul is being beckoned in twine with the withering of this mortal shell. Do you not feel yourself compelled to it? Whenever it should find itself separated from your form?"
He was referring to the construct he had forged years prior:
The Black Soul Husk.
(Etheric Presence)

[14:06] Does he feel it? A question answered without hesitation from the Noctifer. "Constantly." In every battle, a dissonant sensation. Watching himself from afar, out of body, a distracting and disconcerting feeling like his soul hung on by nails in a world that sought purely to strip it away. He decayed, withering steadily as the black soul husk constantly pulled and tugged upon him, seeking to unmake the bonds forged so long ago.

He was being recycled.

"You seek to make your own cycle. That I die and am reborn by your own hand instead of as the world intends."

A constant flux, a continual pull upon him. A withering. Does he feel it, compelled and pulled? "Yes."

There is a look at his hand, a turn of his fingers. When he had fought... "When I faced the Daimyo, my spirit- my own essence- was... delayed from my vessel. Or preceding it. A disconnect between myself and this... chrysalis." It made him weak, for now at least... but his flesh was already failing.

"... I do not carry it with me, but I feel it pull, constantly, no matter how far away I travel."
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[14:45] "All things must End, my Noctifer... Your vessel is of no exception. Though, your purpose has yet to be fulfilled... It is for that reason, that you shall inevitably rise once more - Born anew, within a new vessel. For while your body is mortal, and capable of Death? Your soul bears no such vulnerability.

I had failed to understand the relationship of the immortal soul and soul anchors when I attempted such effort initially. Though, in observing you after its creation, it had begun to make sense.

It was hardly ever a true failure, but an elaborate ritual that dictates the faltering of the flesh, before it can truly take hold."

Terminus was sure of it now. Especially as the abundance of essence flooded his very being, charging through his circuitry and funneling into the Godseed within the pit of his chest.

"Today, I shall see your vessel transformed... For it, shall undergo the next stage in total transference.

Until it is done...

Retrieve the vessel of the 'Bargiel', the Soul Husk, your strains, and finally several of the clergy. They will prove instrumental in the ritual at-hand..."

It was time...
(Etheric Presence)

[15:08] All things End. He had nearly met his, years ago, at the hands of Aetius. Though pain was so loud to the undead as to be silence, his fingers still did not properly respond to him. His skull remained fragile and stitched together. A vessel used up and failing.

"Growth has happened."

The undead, devoted as he was, when encouraged to speak his mind- remained supportive of his master in his own way. Even if it was callous and uncaring for himself, devotion was devotion.

Yet so much essence he gathered, in spite of his flesh. Regardless of the damage dealt. "I am unlike any other.

I will be more, by your hand. Your instrument until The End- and beyond it."

With an nod, he departs- and returns to lay out firmly all the belongings once more.

The corpse of Barron Bargiel, Cambion of Varrach.
The Black Soul Husk, the flawed cracked orb that tugged at his soul and essence even now. His fingers drift afterimages upon it when he moves away...
The blood samples from the faeborn Miyashita Takeshi and the painted undead Ultimaris, taken during infection, nascence, and full symbiosis.
Samples from the Nethradin Mezerliche, in his own infection.
The spawn that had returned from werewolf, synthetic, and sorcerer.
Oguhn. Daniel San. Rayven Gautier.

Prizes from foes defeated long ago.
The down of Blacklight Vir'Ria.
The tendons of dwarves, Daggar and Kraggen, cured in the patron's pool.
The blood of accursed giant Crystalline Surge.
A sliver of dwarven femur from Baldrik.
The pelted hide of Dilang Aardwolf.
The headwing feather of aerodyne Aelora Kasca.
The fiery blood of Bansai Talalt.
A strip of shenlong scales from Ban Dai.
Strips of hide from the wyvern, Zurge.
A section of fox hide from the beast Tati.
The clawed foot of the gryphon Mykolos, pre ascension.

To these, he adds mineral.
Nyctorre, screaming and agonized for so long.
Nyeshk, hard and impenetrable.
Auguria, verdant and full of life.

Some ingredients had changed, some had swapped out... but all the same, there they were.

"... if this new vessel is to be a machine for war, a more perfect form... then its armor will be of its flesh, worked within itself."
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[16:20] Some of the inner circle of the Acentitus Mundus had entered the Deephold, the highest echelon, well knowledgeable of the secrets of Terminus. They knew what the full picture was -- The ultimate vision. Where others faltered in their understanding, they simply proved their incapacity to handle the truth.

They were not ready.

Those within this room? Were a different story entirely.

The corpse was not merely a human, but one cursed with Demon Blood... Varrach's blood. Perhaps, it was only fitting, in one's disdain of Varrach, that they would take claim over his fallen tools to use them for himself. Throughout the process of retrieving the materials, Terminus' form had reshaped... By time one had returned to the chamber, his body had already manifested, hunched over with the pillars as supports for his resting hands.

His eyes fell upon the materia settled before him, cogs turning once more.
Auguria: This was new to him... An ore that seemed to scream of life as opposed to his very radiance. It juxtaposed the energies of the Nyctorre within its own proximity. Then, there was the Nyeshk, just over yonder.

He had no knowledge nor realm of expertise with the molding and shapings of metal beyond the logic that lied behind their general properties. Thus, to forge armor of them, to forge weapons of them... Was unfortunately beyond his capacity. Yet, he listened to Laurentius as he spoke...

He heard Mordeaux as they made of their claim...

'... if this new vessel is to be a machine for war, a more perfect form... then its armor will be of its flesh, worked within itself.'

A Machine of War...
Yes... Antefinem was at war. It was not merely his cradle, but his instrument as a whole. It was prophesized after all, that it would mark the beginning of the end.
The realm at-large was seemingly entering a time of peace.

Exactly as one had foretold...

Then, perhaps... This, was infact destined to happen, for Fate smiled upon them yet again.

So, how would he mold a metal without the means of artificery at his disposal?
The center-focus of thought shifted, for while one could not mold metal akin to flesh... The fabric of reality faltered with the exchange of essence imparted towards the nigh infinite Astral Sea. The power to transform material, could not have been much different, could it? After all, if both raw material and mortality can be transmogrified already, what heights could sorcery push such endeavor towards?

Perhaps, he did not require the skillset of a blacksmith, when he claimed the power of Godhood.

A psionic dispersion of energies filled the room, seemingly uttering sweet nothings for the minds abroad. Though, it was strictly controlled, pinpointed for accuracy. Despite all within the Deephold hearing it, only few would find themselves commanded by it. An evolutionary step beyond Occultic Suggestion -- A form of Magus Indoctrination that had been sown years prior.

Clergymembers had scanned over the corpse laid out before them, observing any form of imperfections, finding the potential cause of death, and finally? Unveiling tools for their intended purpose -- A carving knife, intended to slice into the body. Several incisions were delivered, carefully... Deliberately, down the arms, from the armpits, down the legs from the inner thighs, before finally carving an opening above where the heart would lie. Examinations would thoroughly taking place.

Shadows crawled across the flooring to eventually envelope the Black Soul Husk, for it... Was currently incomplete. Yet, it could still achieve its ultimate goal.

"The world shall recoil in horror with your rise... For you will be even greater, than the most titanic of mortal conjurations I have awoken across Meranthe... A worthy of successor of the First: Syrta, and of the mightiest: Dagon. For you, are a true anchor, not merely of my flesh, but of Time herself... The Mark of a New Age."

The Black Soul Husk was suspended in the air, mana channeled through it to attempt amplifying its resonance. The tug upon Mordeaux's body proved stronger now, but it carried leakage... As though, through its incompletion? The lifestream was applying some form of leverage.
(Terminus)

[16:21] "Your hunts shall not prove vain... For I... Have an answer..." Shadows coalesced to form yet a new appendage, revealed through solidifying smog to by a third arm, spanning from his abdomen. An endeavor of fleshcrafting prowess, as he was slowly returning to his more demonic facade of century's past. Digits wrapped it whole, shrouding its resonance from the world. The remaining arms relinquished their pillars, allowing his body to falter forth somewhat. The remaining smog cleared up outright, revealing yet a fourth arm to manifest, catching him from descending face-first, soon accompanied by the fist of the recently manifested arm in tandem. All the while? One arm, inscribed with the Patron's Brand across its exterior, illuminated in sapphire leylines across it whole. It shone, further replicating the effects of the Black Soul Husk -- Yet, it proved more capable of scaping at the Divine Barrierencompassing the common soul than many others. The opposing arm illuminated in tandem as well: The Sorcerer's Brand, warping at light itself within close proximity.

One mark, capable of siphoning and repurposing essence from the world at large. The other? Capable of exchanging such essence for the divine threads of reality itself, so that it may've been rewritten by the toil of his digits. Each one reinforced the prowess of the other. Incoherent whispers filled the air, cooing from every which darkening corner -- a byproduct of a profane rite carried out around the lot present.

"Mundus multitudinem suam negabit, propter fidelitatem suam ad uni tantum."
The words sputtered from the maws of the titanic beast, soon parroted from the numbers present who had fallen to their knees in seance. Something much more sinister was being tapped into...
The Astral Sea was called upon, but... Something within it... Was tapped into...

Something alien...
Something monstrous...
Parasitic, festering upon an infinite plane of existence, yet? Rendered benign due to its severence from the mortal realm.

Terminus had settled his sights upon it before...
So like the Unreality he had grown privvy to...
Yet, so absolute...
So pure...
An entropic presence that demanded total Oblivion upon all beyond it:
The Abyss of Dregs

"Mundus peccata sua resipiscet coram nuntiis finis."

The inky manifestations of magus shadow crawled across the carpet, ignited in vantablack pyre, and, drawing upon it, runic inscriptions to surround the masses, carrying over even to draft beneath entire bookshelves. The clergymen were within its proximity, and not the slightest consideration for what potential consequences would lie for those here occurred, once such an incantation was finally initiated.

The air tremored, as though refracting under the weight impact of heat and light -- capturing the material placed upon the ground for observation, study and experimentation alike within a faceless veil. The corpse was no different, with Laurentius... Nay... Mordeaux being captured within its midst. He was as much a part of this ritual as every other component, for the Black Soul Husk, resonating within Terminus' new bottom-right arm's fist, dictated it so.

"Mundus delebitur, ut novus nascatur."

Essence was being channeled through these ritualistic inscriptions to incur a sorcerous spell -- One that transcended the boundaries of mana alone. A turn of the head, and Terminus' attention shifted to the ores once more. What need was there for an anvil norfurnace... The world was his sandbox now.
The arm of Terminus defined by its sorcerous brand was extended out for the raw materials, finding themselves swaddled with etheric mana. It was hardly the magic being used to manipulate their properties, but rather, a conduit for the divine principalities being incurred upon.

All too often, had the souls within Nyctorre been used as a passive amplifier in the materials crafted with by artificers. Terminus saw it as a waste... After all, what more valuable asset was there.... Than the human soul?!

The arm trembled, channelling its control over the material, focusing heaviest on the Nyctorre. The material trembled, before...
*CRACK
Did the stone... Start to... Shatter?
A distinct hum sung out for the ears of all abroad, coinciding with the screaming of a soul desperately vying for freedom. Alas, it seemed as though... Terminus was giving them the opportunity?

*CRACK*
The sound was far louder and harsher this time, allowing for the translucent image of a wispy entity to start spilling from the bled Arcanium. It truly seemed as though they we--
(Terminus)

[16:35] *WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*
Their screech sought to quiver at the air, plucked from their prison, to slowly be siphoned towards the Sorcerous Brand.

Terminus was not merely freeing the soul...
They were transmuting the soul. Denying them any hope of existence from an afterlife, for all of eternity -- For no longer would they exist, extinguished in return for a massive generation of raw essence. In the immediate, it meant the dematerialization of the depraved ore! In the immediate, it meant even the lifestream would cry out in detestation, in anguish -- For an ultimate sin against divine creation was incurred: Outright destruction of the 'Sacred Order'.

In exchange, the power of extraordinary... A burst of essence that'd properly imitate an inkling of what Marqui would toy with. It was what Terminus ultimately was pursuing endlessly -- even if merely a nonmagus victim. The newfound essence was more than enough to play God here...
Nyeshk was hard... Impenetrable by mortal standards... But now? With so much essence at one's disposal? It was as malleable as playdough in Terminus' hands. Now shining sapphire as he sculpted with his instruments -- No longer a mere beast, but a thing claiming divinity beyond its former limitations.

Hands cursed with the venom of Varrach's Death Magic constantly unmaking him, sought to bleed even the Auguria within his palms. Squeezed and molded as though his very hands carried molten heat. They kneaded with the Nyeshk, forging... Something new... A nameless conglomerate of ores fused with the magical potency of a now unmade soul. It shined an opaque lavender -- blob-like, for it was not yet done. It was relinquished, suspended in the air by animated shadows at Terminus' psionic behest.

His attention shifted,hands liberated of their first divine-enabled task, for the somewhat prepared vessel of the cambion. It could be shaped... It could be infected... But first? It needed to be capable of generating the same entropic potential of Mordeaux's first vessel...

The gargantuan ancient's head shifted, reflecting the now-suspended Mordeaux in the gaze of their featureless crimson hues. This time, the opposing arm rose in reverence -- Not the Sorcererous Brand, but rather? The Patron's Brand -- tugging at the mana within one's unliving vessel. It was as though they were... Feeding on him? Nay... That couldn't have been the purpose...
The vestiges that bound the soul to the body was weakening... Could he had actively been summoning his soul once more?

... No... It had to be.. Something else. Flesh jigged, where wounds had built up prior. Where the body had been once mangled.... Where plasma had once singed...Where rust had deteriorated, and crystal skewered through. Where beating after beating had wore down on a depraved soul -- The fastening of the mortal vessel were coming undone... For the abdomen was being untangled of its fleshy fibers. As though a knitter sought to unknit a product, to undo their progress, to...

Reveal The Entropic Core Within
"Mundus mortem non amplius cognoscet, nam cum mundo vetere vincetur."
... Charged...
... With Malefic Radiance...
... That sought to eat away at the unprepared, the living, and those with vestiges of essence yet to give, to surrender. Those chanting nigh felt fatigue come over them, for the Entropic Core was charged, potent, and rapidly siphoning at their lifeforce. They were never meant to be near it. Especially when exposed.

Terminus was beckoning -it- over all other things... For it, would be the first things transplanted into this pending vessel...
(Terminus)
[20:51] The Entropic Core... Unveiled.
The once-ensnared soul within the presented Nyctorre? Sacrificed.
Transmuted into raw essence to amplify one's sorcerous potential.

The Nyeshk? Manipulated on such a scale that it emulated clay... And the Auguria? Bled of its pure vitality by the radiance of Death Magic still imparted upon Terminus, to this day. The metals had become something new, and Terminus's sights shifted from his creations, new and previous -- for the now-suspended corpse of Barron Bargiel.

It was not alone...
Countless trophies and viral samples also hovered in its wake, held up by shadowy constructs by Terminus' design. There were plenty of means of meddling with the inner machinations of the corpse. To tamper with the minute processes of anatomy...
To modify the independent organs to augment certain features, to emulate better the prowess of superior creatures within a humanoid stature...

But that... Would be too minor... Too human-like...
Too... Flawed.

The thought had never seemed to certain to Him now...
Varrach was wrong with his design. Terminus would not repeat its mistake.

Mana was sifted through the air, poured into the corpse to flood its anatomy, to impose automancy throughout it, so that it could be properly puppeteered over to him. It was not unlike his previous endeavors of telekinesis or remote possessions -- However, it was far more direct than it was in other means. It was far from the same as the others... A corpse did not have a mind to process thoughts, and thus, he could not animate it as thoroughly as he might've for an undead or a living individual. He could move it well enough, though, until it was within his physical reach.

--... Until it could be uplifted by rising ebony hands, borne from the lingering shadows.

The occult was being invoked, worked upon his own flesh -- To disintegrate the exterior of his flesh for flakes of seemingly dust to cloud at the air... To seemingly contaminate the samples abroad. Though it would soon prove evident, Terminus was far from so careless in his endeavors. The spell he was casting upon himself, surely, was a destructive display upon his own flesh, albeit in minute fashion. However, what was shed from his skin? Upon close inspection, it seemed to... Move? Squirm... Nigh microscopic variants of his ilk: His spawn -- Magical Beasts that dared to trouble the watchful gander of one's eye, no different from former variants of the parasites that helped spread the Rust Plague.

They were infesting the samples, in some cases, consuming the material so that they could act as a proper carrier to a proper host. The samples were all swaddled in mana as to enable them to float, to perform aerial rolls in their slow-motion tumble for the corpse over yonder. There was no formal means of extraction, nor precision... Just hand-waving, as though to showcase his ascension beyond such mortal applications.

Sheathing material soon transmuted to oblivion, with only drifting parasites imbued with stowed samples to inevitably dust themselves over the corpse.
Every sample... Indiscriminately captured and applied to the corpse, to provide an abundant culture of microscopic chaos within a soon-to-be resuscitated cadaver.

The tendons of dwarves found themselves addled away through the exercise of Esoteric Magic: One such ability that proved a more medicinally-charged application of the Occult. For creatures so naturally short, such fibrous tissue was incredibly dense, strong -- Capable of resisting extraordinary pressures. With its unmaking came the fabrication of the same brand of tissue within the body.

Muscle fibers may've been a negligent factor when considering the undead; however, features such as this ensured that the construct could hold itself together with confidence when subjected to excessive pressures. When intensified with Terminus' own essence, festered with his own spawn? It meant it could effectively carry out a regenerative property -- One that would pervade the rest of the interior of this vessel.

The trophy of Blacklight Vir'Ria would whittle away, and within the fallen Barron Bargiel? It would form once more. All the while, the corpse was being torn apart from the inside, the outside, and reformed with each new addition. Fleshcrafting sought to ensure that it would become something new...

Something evolved...

The residual material of a dwarven femur was disintegrated, mineralizing the osseous tissue within to reinforce its structure for what was soon to come. The byproduct was the spinal cord forming additional vertebrae...
(Terminus)

[20:52] One... Two... Three... Four...
It would stretch the skin, strain it until it would bear additional tissue -- Tissue that would not be denied. The pelted hide would be disintegrated next, withering away to nothing, to manifest additional flesh for the skin to pull with. To extend out out, for a soon-to-be-developed tail.

This was originally just a human corpse, but by playing the role of a God? Terminus was creating something... New...
It was not merely a magical beast, as sorcery would have it...
As his new biology would have it...

No... This was something... New...
Just as many prided themselves on bringing upon Death, Terminus, could now bear a claim to his divinity. He could claim that he could do more... He could do both...

For just as Death could be imparted by His hand? So too, could he impart life itself...
Or... At least, a perversion of it.

With more flesh, bone and muscle -- There lied a need for blood. No matter how preserved the cadaver was, it needed more to properly function with all of the mass it was receiving. Thus, as the container for the accursed giant's blood flowed for the cadaver, splashed upon its flesh, and spiked in the presence of Terminus' mana interlacing with it? It kneaded into the body, almost as though pulled into it -- suckled away by a manipulating anatomy, still in construction.
It was vampiric by design, if only to ensure the biomantic capabilities of Mordeaux were fully exemplified.

The headwing feather would itself burned away to bring about a proto-feathery fuzz across the length of one's back and crown -- soon spouting a skewering of horns from a head of falling hair.

The more draconic blood, strengthened the skin beneath the fuzz, formulating a scaly pattern that better suited it. Shenlong scales broke apart, flaking into oblivion, converted to mana, only to execute in a materialization spell across Barron Bargiel -- Reinforcing what had already taken hold. It was appearing more, and more like a sickly variant of a Dragon... Nay, Wyvern. A mutant, that even the most accepting of drake kind would find repugnant. Horns jutted from the back of the hands, sharpening at the nails to form claws. The nerves within were shocked into animation, opening the human eyes that were undergoing a forced magus mutation. One by one, the eyes deteriorated, collapsing the lids, until they'd fill back up. Bulged at first, only to properly sink into place: Reptilian eyes... Drakanite eyes.

Though the face was only starting to undergo the steps of terraforming, for the cheeks swelled up, peeling open! Wide sores, streaked with recently injected blood down the chin, before flexing shut, and opening with additional breadth. Human-like eyes, pressed upright by reformed cheekbones, glowing a distinct amber.

Lips eroded away, for they served little purpose in the grand design. What were once facial cheeks, were wrapping tightly around the bone within, exposing human teeth that transformed with the excessive bone tissues implanted within. Incisors and canines spanned the full length of their maws, intended solely to maim and gore with their every chomp. When laced with the plagues at their disposal, it meant their bite proved infectious at best, and necrotic at worst.

The clawed foot of the gryphon Mykolos was the last to go. Slowly unmade with the wave of Terminus' hand over it -- Occultic magics intent to destroy it outright, so that it could be rebuilt elsewhere. In this case, it was an act that was seamlessly combined with one's fleshcrafting prowess. Human feet was disintegrated, before the swelling the flexing of osseous and muscular tissues bubbled at the base of the ankles. An entire appendage from a gryphon proved to be quite the amount of bio-material to work -- More than enough to finish off what one had access to.

Human tissues were redesigned, with the blueprint that the clawed foot provided, keeping the human-pink with keratin claws. As intimidating as it was? It was...
Subpar.

This would never manage in the face of the world at-large. In fact, it would be doomed... Which led the question, why was -this- the design that Terminus went with? Some Frankenstein of human and beast body parts?

There wasn't much material left to work with, but with a tail, horns, claws, and additional eyes already designed? What more could one do?
(Terminus)

[20:56] Fingers curled, trembling, before hovering -just- beyond one's touch. The bodily tissue was... Stretching? It was as though it was being vacuumed from the inside, emancipating the anatomical structure... Weakening it? No... Displacing the material within, to allow Terminus to make more with less. The remaining material was destroyed all at-once, allowing one to remotely trigger the growth of an exterior amalgam of bone and muscular tissue, stretching out like vestigial appendages off of one's back, clearly unfinished to some degree at first glance. But then, with a squint perhaps? It would be revealed.

A thin membrane of flesh was stretching between these strange fleshy constructs protruding from one's back: Wings. Yet, they were simply ill-designed for flight, and hardly sturdy enough to provide a proper aegis. Too thin to prevent much of anything...

"Quia hic agens munus Terminus perficiet."

A finger, alit with the essence at one's employ, pointed for the disembodied Entropic Core, commanding of it with the magics that bathed it whole. It was directed with naught more than the shift of its angle, rocketing it into the chestal cavity of the cadaver and shifting it abruptly in its impact. The contact with its led a deathly howl betwixt it and the dormant vocal chords of the fallen, taking upon a soft emerald glow. It was hardly fully implanted, as opposed to simply slammed into the flesh, and fusing to it on a surface level. Naturally, it would simply weigh itself out of one's stomach, and tear the skin off with it. This... Would be the concern of the common Necromancer... The Novice Necromancer...
Terminus, was no Novice.

Hands pulled back, commanding upon the final feature... The very first thing he had forged. A nameless metal, accursed by a bleeding Auguria blended with Nyeshk, was manipulated as though it were molten and cast over the cadaver whole. It sheathed it, encompassed it... Every appendage, every surface... And not the slightest of burns, for it did not need to be heated to have its properties manipulated. It compacted itself across the silhouette, further defining the attributes of such a conjuration.

Certainly, opening the corpse up would prove a feat for anyone... Though essence would likely be a necessary factor. A blessing that sorcerers were becoming a more antagonized breed as of late. Yet another finger neared the solidifying cast, brushing itself at the natural leyline in which muscles were naturally separate from one another. It carved through, like butter, allowing an opening... Allowing for flexing of now sheathed anatomy.
He was creating joints.

One after another, all the while, using one of his four arms to hold the Black Soul Husk up, channeling mana in a multi-angled ritualistic effort. He was actively attempting to complete it... To fix it.... To attune it to Mordeaux, and this vessel. It was both literal and figurative, as though a King, knighting a proven-worthy warrior to be one amongst new colleagues, to stand for a banner in the most high of noble honors.
To dub this vessel as Mordeaux's newest body.
To dub this vessel as Emissary of Terminus' Will.
To dub this vessel as a Herald of the End.
A Noctifer. A Nightbringer.

A pulse of necromantic energies surged through the air...
The pull on Mordeaux's soul proved more adamant from the husk, desperately transmogrifying at Terminus' whim, attempting to forge:

A Soul Orb...
A Black Soul Orb...
It was an evolved form of Nyctorre: A demonstration of a necromancer just scratching the surface. Such a construct, a rudimentary means of containing a soul... But this? A step beyond... One that dared to tickle the fantasy of a construct that would deny Death's embrace forever... An attempt at a Phylactery -- even if not committed upon oneself. All he had to do successfully was bring about a controlled means of disembodying Mordeaux's soul at will...

If it were possible? Then, perhaps... Implanting his soul into a new body would prove effortless.
Then, one could look upon... Even greater feats.
The steps to Godhood proved as infinite as the powers it claimed...
(Terminus)

[21:51] Countless trophies... Mordeaux was a cruel and incomplete creature, passion in violence. Feelings of attachment were foreign to him, but his collection may have been close. A biomancer's trade was flesh and blood, and he'd collected such a tidy sum, hadn't he?

The crown jewel, that corpse, is lifted and suffused in spawn. The same spawn that made up his heart, what had been formulated and made.. the plague, in it's truest form, was of his master's flesh.

His flayed form, decayed, unraveled, and destroyed, soul being pulled and prized, drifts among this sea of profane work. The plague feasts on the drawn samples from many races, many battles, all saturated with its own mutated brethren. A perfect spawning ground for evolution. For something worse, something vile to rise...

The corpse is the canvas upon which this incredible wealth of information is passed, the cauldron within which the most vile of things are brewed, empowered with essence. A phenomenal work of mutation...

A blacklight demon's down, melding with the demonic taint already present within the corpse. Dense, essence infused muscle tissue, powerful and strong, poised to regenerate. Dwarvish endurance within the bones, a spine lengthening grotesquely as the skin strains and stretches- the hide of a beast blending with the body, merging with 'human' skin...

Perversion...

Blood must be added, for how else would a blood mage ply his trade? The cursed blood of giants fills within, drawn inside a thirsting form, as the spiritual feather of the aerodyne claimed in violence and filled with the blood of her brother amidst his cruel defeat... a relic of betrayal of trust, of the crushing of dreams, of cruelty unto the innocent... weaves among the crown atop the head.

So much cruelty.
So much death.
So much blood.

These define the relics taken, as burning blood and shenlong scales reinforce the skin over and over again, traits manifesting steadily in a parody of the beauty a dragon held. A repugnant abomination, horns and claws jutting forwards, eyes slit and vicious. Sores peel across the face, the form rotting and decaying already beneath the weight of a plague. Infection vectors... the entire thing a biohazard.

Lips rotting, cheeks wrapping and splitting as a mouth fills with fangs. A grotesque smile, saliva and gore mixed within. Far better than the largely blunt things in his current visage... perfect to spread his sickness.

The last comes the claws of the gryphon, given to his own. A reshaping, claws upon feet for tearing to match those upon his hands and the horns upon his head. A thing of knives and daggers, built for death and violence.

It was beautiful, if Mordeaux could conceptualize such a term... though such a thing, even without the touch of undeath, would never pass within the world of men. A deranged biomancer's fevered nightmare, even the most insane of the civilized men wouldn't create something this depraved.

... Mordeaux never particularly cared for the company of mortals anyway.

The body stretches, expanding, as fleshy wings expand outwards from the spine. Were these thin things intended for some greater purpose? Too frail for flight, too frail for a shield... perhaps, later, a purpose would be found.

The core. His Core. His body screams in agony at it's station, swimming in pain, as the source of his peace is embedded into the chest cavity of the creature. A horrific screeching fills the air, the burning orb fusing into the torso on a superficial level. He knew how much it burned... how it decayed what it touched...

Then. The last. The accursed metal, bleeding nyeshk and auguria, a nameless and accursed thing sheathing through that reinforced skin and across its wings. A carapcae formed between dense, chimeric flesh and the new metal... joints were carved within to allow it to move, this mass of unholy nightmares clasped in its shell.

It was perfect, if he had the wherewithal to think such a thing as the black soul orb was worked further... as the Lord seizes at his soul once more, seeking to peel it free and rebind it to new vessel.

To create something so, so much more... idealized towards what the undead should be.

Monsters.

The pull was adamant. The pull was undeniable. The call a sweet sirens song to oblivion, over and over, the whispering demand towards imprisonment once more in that which should never live. The song of damnation and despair, endless suffering and woe...

Just...
One...
Step...

With decaying hands falling apart at their seams, a body collapsing... that dark essence holding hostage the soul within reaches out to the Patron...

To Suffer.
To Rot.
To Wither.

To be abomination.
To spite the world.
To drown in depravity.
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[21:52] To be the worst of things.

In His name,

Until the End.
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[22:23] The shine of lavender against the metallic carapace proved most flexed with the stretching of draconic wings. What was once soft skin, was now a hardened metal alloy, manifested by Terminus' hand within the Deephold. It was without a name, for before now? It simply hadn't existed...

The gasps of those within the room interrupted the silence that took it whole. The runic inscriptions upon the ground throughout the Deephold had slowly faded away. Those whom had not fallen unconscious, or worse to the unveiling of the Entropic Core? Set their sights on yet a new achieve of their Patron.

''Perditio''
The ancient tongue was uttered by the Maledictus in the room, looking up in awe at the newest vessel for Mordeaux.

''Destruction of the most absolute. Of what Man could never touch. The ultimate penance forsinners...

...Perditio...''

The metal alloy, was dubbed, then, and there...

There, the soul-less husk would idle, puppeteered by Terminus to allow it to stand upright for proper showcasing. Every joint forged with slits and dwarven tendons to reinforce the strength between each metallic plate.

It was hulking -- Greater than any mere man, for this could never imitate a man. It was the monster that Mordeaux was always destined to become. As Fate dictated so...
An Agent Of The End...
A Force of Nature.

While rust could radiate from its crevices, the material would never truly falter.
It.
Was.
Perfect.

Hovering amidst the room, swaddled by ambient shadow and occultic miasma, it remained... The Black Soul Orb-Husk still beaming with its silent incantations actively playing out. It tugged at the soul, yet the effort proved... slow at best. While the effort could be felt? It was without a doubt that the soul transference endeavor would happen slowly, over time.

It likely wasn't much for the moment, proving to be an intensification of its previous resonance... But in time? Perhaps, they'd find the world blotting away.
Perhaps, they'd find their finer motor functions withering to naught...
Perhaps, they'd finally find the urge... to sleep...

In which, the vessel they bore, would simply slump over, and be allowed to rest... Once, and for all.

For it too, must End...
A part of the eternal cycle...
One such cycle, that they would render to Null.

"Arise: Mordeaux... The ritual shall take time. You will soon feel its effects.
See to it, that the necessary amounts of essence are procured to ensure a smooth transition."
(Terminus)

[22:28] His stirring is something slow. Something sluggish. A soul pulled and twisted between two forms, wrenched and tugged as he tried to let go. It wasn't long now... soon, 'Laurentius' would be gone.

Mordeaux would finally be free of the chrysalis so despised...

It would be agony. His flesh slowly reforms, knitting closed around the void where the core used to rest. The reshaping is wrought with decay, his vessel steadily failing- ever so slowly... as the soul loses grasp, and the withering of the world is returned to him in force at the absence of his core.

Yet it was a hel he would endure, until he faltered to rise no more.
Until the eyes what opened were no longer these ruined, broken things, streaked by an angel's grace.

"How... much essence, my lord?" He knew he'd gathered some, as he rises like a marionette. Muscles pulled on sanguine strings... They always needed more, after all.
(Laurentius of Terminus)

[22:31] Terminus says, "Only, that of one mortal's sin... Harvest it well, then return to the isle, until the transition is complete. Any that pose a threat, can be dealt with, in any way you wish."
[22:31] Laurentius of Terminus says, "Very well..."
[22:31] Laurentius of Terminus says, "Thy will be done."
[22:31] Terminus says, "Farewell, my Noctifer."
[22:32] Terminus seemingly fades to dust.
(Terminus)