Terminus: Champion Ascension I

The midday sun illuminated the scene quite nicely -- The Glufdor Mountain overlooking the tri-way split of land harbored a chilling presence. One that sought to rend the soils to decay in its wake. The smog that clung to ground soon ascended to the skies above, dulling the sunshine below.

The brightness of noon light was being snuffed out, replaced with a twilight below. The manipulation of Space ushered forth gales from abroad. With such altitude, the very winds proved magnified -- complementing spells afoot that treated shadows more akin to wispy plums of gaseous pollutants.

The coalescing of the shadows wrought forth magus static, tempting Helstorm fulmination to dance high above. The cackle of vermillion lightning above briefly murmured its thunderous applause just moments before crimson eyes shined through the collar of blackened smog. High above the body of water, on the mountaintop, stood Terminus.

Its arms spread out, stretching as it oft did prior to materializing itself. It was a magnificent day!
For a ritual was soon to be at-hand.

Below -- the waters were eyed...
A psionic call boomed out - devoid of words to speak. One interlaced with the occult to tempt that which lied beneath the surface: To summon them.

"It is time... "
The declaration seemed absolute.
"Rise, Deep One... Show yourself to me, and present your tribute.

Ascension awaits..."

As it had required prior, it was awaiting for its payment... In the form of mana.

(Etheric Presence)

The echoes of the waterbed split from river, to river, to river, to the central body of murky water. The clarity of day is molded and twisted from one to another, from noon to twilight. And, further still, the spatial quivering and wavering above shift to draw the eyes of bioluminescence from below. Lilypads, stone, flowering flowers, blanchebloom buds on the water, all twist into a coiling pattern. The flow of rivers seem tempted to stop across this nexus of Meranthe, and coalesce, and congeal, to a master of it.

To a resident of the waves, the rapids and channels were very little. They were shallow- yet still held wonderful mystery and intrigue aplenty.

Words give way without sound, and draw the chitin, and the squid-flesh, and the tentacles, their puckering grasp, and bodies, out from the murk. Shadows and silt cling to it in wisps, as it rises to the surface of the water, and then, coiling at its surface tension, its grasp on spatial control shifts and pull it up.


"Ascension?"
It is mostly aware of what is to be had.
(From The Deep)


Payment was paramount...

It was what he intended to institutionalize with such feats -- Transactional. A Patron that acted in trade of one's mana... If it were not presented, then it would be tugged upon!

A faceless tendril of the transmundane descended from the mountaintop, spanning down in a vast stretch to connect One Once Beneath The Waves, with the Avatar of The End. It poked and prodded, much like the etheric presence oft would upon its initial encounters. Though, something was slightly different. Its kneading upon the flesh, sought to penetrate for the circuitry immediately -- and with contact? It'd begin its siphon.

It was slow at first, but hastened with the passing moments. On a visual domain, it'd showcased as a stream of translucent sapphire miasma towering up to meet an extended lower left hand. If it wasn't obvious by now, it wouldn't be a mystery in these fleetingmoments.

Terminus was actively siphoning at one's circuitry -- akin to how demon ilk would strive to consume their prey, albeit remotely. In this practice, from a remote distance such as this? It was unprecise, an imperfected craft that lapped at vitality in the process.

"Do not resist... My payment is due."


Surely, this effort was not absolute. In fact, it could quite easily be resisted! The magic casting, given the squinnox's conscious state? Required their consensual relinquishment of this resource... That, or a sacrifice imparted upon themselves. Though, if they were to resist? Was it likely they'd be denied the very ascension they had initially requested?
(Terminus)


Payment was tantamount...

To power.

Power incited, given, and managed by the End, the cacophony of no less than a dozen. But, to ascend, as the descending obelisk of force implied, was a feat not to hold lightly or in any small measure. The slow procedural drawing of essence and ether to probe at the circuitry of another; the Deepling. The broodmother, and fledgling, all at the same time. This nascent middle road between beginning and End.

Perhaps, in that way, they were another parallel; and so their union here in patronage was paradoxical itself. But, shadows meet shadows, and the squinnox shudders.
It is a beast as much as it is a sentient, philosophical thought-form in a body. Its flesh shudders and recoils, but this thing? Decidedly there is no contest, between which part of it reigns supreme. The intellectual mind, and the ineffectual chemicals of its physical mass.

The eyes remain locked on Terminus; the link made does not fade. The tether holds firm, and mana is given. Payment, rent, due.

Tapping into the very core of the thing's sight, it did not break the contact.

There was no logical reason.
Even if every fiber of its being, hated, it.
...half-subservience.
It's patronage.
(From The Deep)

From The Deep has applied Mana  Payment to their self.

[View the injury.]



Mana  Payment [Temporary]
"An offering has been made to Terminus! With the revealing of one's casted mana, a sizable portion of mana has been seized! A sense of wooziness and overall exhaustion. Perhaps, it was a great deal more than what one might've expected. There seems not to be any physical scars to the flesh."
VIT: -21





It was coming to Him now...
Satisfaction. Mana was pried loose, sprawling through the air within a prism of his design -- trailing up to meet his open digits. It permeated the flesh, joining his own circuitry. To feed through magic was no enigmatic feat -- in fact, it was almost rudimentary by this point.

A lavender gleam across its silhouette highlighted its figure, paid tribute. The Hate for the act, however cloaked it may've been was felt. In some sense, that very sensation wrought catharsis in this Helish abomination. It was, what kept it going afterall.

The transaction was effectively initiated, and it was time for the Patron to commit to the request.

"Abrenuntio quod me unum De multis facit, quia multi Ex uno sumus."


This, was Felspeak, spoken by Terminus' tongue. As the profane words escaped its lips, its flesh seized and quivered, making way to reveal the unsheathing of a human's head from both of his shoulders.
These were humans he had consumed prior... But what made these two special? Why were they only emerging now?
Fused to his body long ago, these were likely individuals of renown in their day.

What they did in life no longer mattered. What did? Was that their emergence, came with their speech in tandem. Their tongues would join the incantation with phrases of their own.



From the Left Face:
"Renuntio quod sanguinem ulterius petit, mox enim nunquam iterum sanguinem iungemus."


From The Right Face:
"Abrenuntio quod me ad sanguinalem impellit, quia carne caecati non manebimus."


Their speech proved rather discordant, spoken in nigh unison if not for the words being unalike.
As though, a twisted conversation afoot... Terminus spoke as if to reply:

"Abrenuntio quod me mortalem facit, mox enim immortali iungemus."


It was then, that both of Terminus' upper arms took rise...
A spell was being cast, incurring the relinquishing of a transmogrifying spell. Telekinetic magics were active even now... Though, imposed solely on the unseen. Within the dimmed skies above, wrought a pit of ichorous black, manifesting from infinitesimally small point in Space. It stretched in from itself, from the depths of Oblivion itself.

Not to be confused with a rift, but rather? Something manifested from a invoked Shadow Form. A mound of bulbous flesh was revealed, levitated... Closer inspection revealed it to be that of none-other-than Terminus' own flesh to boot. The degenerative powers invoked upon him required constant regeneration. The consequence proving to be an overcompensation -- A cancerous growth, now actively utilized as his tool. Within this gargantuan fleshy construct? Gallons of X-fluid...

All of it, abruptly relinquished of his telekinetic control. To be callously plopped into the waters with a thunderous splash. As it'd sink? Terminus' blood would taint the watery depths. The material walls of this flesh mound proving rather fragile to the impact, started to seep, further polluting the waters with a concoction of the End's baptizing blood... And X-fluid alike.

The briefly black blotch soon shined a familiar lavender...
The same gleam earned by his stygian flames, taking to the waters, and humming against the flesh of the Deepling.

The upper-arms of Terminus remained risen, as though to behold the heavens above in boast.
Though, the Left Face upon his shoulder spoke once more:

"Finis praeco invoco, vis ut perfice visum meum ut consequar."


With its speak, the lower-left arm splayed out in kind, nigh perpendicular in reference to the broodmother.

Then, upon finishing its incantation, the Right Face upon the opposing shoulder followed-up.

"Invoco praeconem extremum, offerre carnem meam et animam, ut merear eius."


It was as though they controlled the lower arms corresponding to their place on Terminus' body. Just as the first had stretched an arm perpendicular to the squinnox, so did the lower-right stretch out to behold them as well.

The both of them spoke in unison now. Speaking the same words of the same tongue:

"Per manus eius semper more- vivam — Mortales iras non patiar amplius."

As they conducted such, the lower arms took to a mauve shine, not too different from the altered waters below. Though, this time a spell was invoked unto squinnox itself. It was of a metaphysical nature...
One that imposed weight unto it, likely motivating it to sink beneath the impacted depths...

To descend...
To wallow to the deepest part of the confluence.
All the while a telepathic resonation from Terminus himself wrought forth his own voice to the depths of their mind.

"Sed somnium ficti mihi, et omnibus qui etiam vident."


What remained...
Was the execution of the invocation: The true name of the Patron.
(Terminus)

Terminus's voice (to From The Deep): Usque Terminus.

You drop Agility X x37.

From The Deep picks up Agility X x37.


Wrought from the subject-to-pain form of the squinnox, it rasps with those hollow 'breaths' of air from the maw. The tentacles grow limp, across its face, and the flesh sags. It ripples whilst the ethereal is taken away. The shuddering is mirrored, Felspeak and a foul tongue spewing out of the heads of men who, once, perhaps, were significant. But now?

Now it were shred, bonded, bound and made irrevocable. A flesh-woven set of heads which engaged in dialogue with the End, self-proclaimed avatar of all things Helish. And, conjured, from the sky- from that point of blotted sun, an inverse is made. An eclipse of flesh spills from a contingency in space, brought a callous splash to the mix. The lake, the convening point of rivers, now became that of a cauldron, filled with murk, with shadow, with the lymphatic containment of demonic incantation. And, whilst the water was rife with a murk, a force suggested it go down. A weight on the fins and gills and edges of its tentacles, first, that was then a feeling that sunk into the rest of its body. Further, and further.

Where was he going, exactly?
Down?
Into that?

From the surface of the water, that pillowed underneath it, and lifted it up, the Thing From The Deep presses into that skin of the surface. Further, and further, whilst it glances down. A strangely human feeling permeating from its blank expression whilst it glances between the murk and Terminus itself-- of... what, doubt? Panic? Fear? Strife? Ire?
As if to say, 'you want me to what?'

Plunk.

It sinks into the deep, baptized under name once more.
Drowning in reward.
(From The Deep)

OOC - From The Deep has commended you for the reason:
 When I look at Terminus, I don't really get '124 year old demon', but when they rp? God, I feel it. Godspeed, Usque Terminus. You overachieve and make even the miserable feeling of grinding agility X pots into something I think genuinely has some kind of huge mechanical impact with how you excel and overachieve with all your effort and posts.


(You also gain a bonus of 5% EXP, lasting until Wed Oct 02 21:08:19 2024!)





The deed was done...
Its arms fell to its sides, lax now.
The faces of lost renown, slowly sunk back beneath the flesh.
Unto the body of water-turned-cauldron, the Patron looked on with stoicism.

It waited...
But not for the squinnox… Nay...
It was mulling over something...
Memories...

Memories of another... The first ascension ritual.
One, enacted in the company of long lost Cambions...
Of vanquished Kaor Lords...
The name of that lesser demon, crawled from the depths of his memories... From the grave of Abendrot:

"Tal'guth."

The name spoken from Terminus' lips, wrought back the image of the dream-eater in such infantile form.


"How I abandoned you, my first project... So swift to pursue my growth, I hadn't considered the success you'd become."

Their head adjusted, taking their brooding gaze to the northbound horizon over yonder.

"... How you'd flee your very heritage to become... Whatever it is they claim you are..."

A subtle swivel of the head, oh-so-slow... Oh-so-fluid... Morbid disapproval.


"I will not make that mistake twice..."

Terminus head turned once more, taking to the polluted waters. Their expression tensing somewhat now... Aggravated at the looming thoughts.

"You... Will become my Champion... Molded to never forsake your true identity. Not one to be decided by Masters, but realized by you alone.

A sword that will plunge into the heart of Man..."


Though the entity was likely submerged, the voice boomed out... Tearing into the sanctity that was the watery surface for resonate beyond it with a telepathic amplifier.


"Let your Will be done... And my vision fulfilled through it fruition.
Arise...
Dagon of Terminus."


With the single command, the one From The Deep was dubbed by the proclaimed deity.
A subtle invocation over Space encompassing Terminus conjured a breeze. A breeze, that attled away at his figure, whisked into a trailing miasma into the wind.
From the shadows whence he came...
And to them, he returned -- to black of the night.

The Demon Patron, had made its departure.

(Terminus)

Plunged into the murk, the Deepling sinks into embittered empowerment of form. It swells with the murk, it sinks and stirs to listen closely to the lamented memories of another. Of Talguth, whomever it is, and of that failure in and of itself.

''Can...''

Illusory wisps of energy boil and slur in the bottom of the murk. They were no demon, no entity of the occult, no force of such a realm- they were unnamed, they were fresh. Ever shifting, molding, adapting to the slime underfoot and underneath the realm of shadow and shade. The twilight that bleeds into sunset with the length of encroaching, towering shadow and stretching spatial warps crease and sink around their body.

Submerged, unable to listen, but still hearing, the will shudders across its flesh, whilst tendrils writhe over its form and slather the murk in lifted silt and bottom-feeder starch. Glimmers and glints of coins long-lost and trinkets longer-buried rise in the pitch, before the tar gives way to eyes. Eyes, cysts, sight in all forms, that drive it up from the murk, slowly twirling amidst the whirling lake.


''You...''

It is said in legend that oft, spirits are given names by people, and those names gain power. It is said, sometimes, in more hushed tones, that speaking the names of fae draw their attention; and that fae do not oft give out their true names to those who incite them.

But the Thing From The Deep did not have one.
Not true, not false.
It was a fragment of history Man would sooner forget.


"Hear me?"

Risen from murk, breaching the surface, it finds a voice. It rasps and coils on the wind like the smellof carrion, it is pervasive and sinks and coils into bodies and forms alike. All that hear it - it splays and sinks into thought, it thrums into the body.
Whispers on the wind of The Deep from Yon Low.

"I am From The Deep.


I am That From Below.

I am Dagon."



"And I am Here."

(Dagon Terminus)