Terminus: To Defy Mortyl III

The Maledictus mulled to himself, gazing upon the shrine pool with a sense of shock. Instead of prayer, he was sitting before it... Truly contemplating what he had beheld. It was... Beyond what they were used to...
Beyond what they had thought possible in the past.

One of the youthful clergy approached the elder, raising a hand to rest at their shoulder to beckon their attention. Though, their head craned over in stalled fashion.

''Father... What troubles you?''

The young man asked of the elder, whom now looked upon them with haunted eyes. His lips parted to speak, to regale in the matters that took place just days prior.


''My child... It is a blessing to behold the wonders of the world, its gifts and joys...

There are few opportunities within it, that one may behold divine retribution made manifest...
The day you took to restwith your family... He had committed the ultimate boon unto his blessed.

… Sit.''

The elder ordered of the youth fledgling into adulthood, to take place behind him at the edge of the vantablack pool -- one, where their Patron rested at the bottom of its fathomless depths.

''It was... On the Eve of the Jester's demise...''
|| Two Months Prior ||


The air within the shrine proved cold, with the distinct acidic burn of the occult irking at the exposed flesh of those nigh. The Patron was angry...
News had spread of the falling of his many, succumbed to an extraplanar threat invoked by the magi of Meranthe. It was a matter of curiosity that set his endeavors back -- forced one to contemplate the possibility of being denied true resurrection: A proper ascension!

Thus, a command was directed...
The fishing of one of the corpses from Insurrection Day: Of the victims of Za'agan Sun's terrorist attack upon the first Election of Antefinem. It was that of the remains of an individual that had served devoutly, to the very end... A nonmagi that was taken before their time.

Targis Wynfield

A nonmagus politician.
A family man... With wife and child.
The prime candidate for presidency against Melia Hajrudin in the first election, unintentionally assassinated by the Oni in the mass shooting.

Their remains were retched and vile... Drawing the expressions of pain and disgust by the clergymen of Acentitus Mundus. It was brought under the cover of night, where the many of Antefinem's forces were least heavy -- utilizing holes in their general procedures, intentionally established for this very effort.

Clergymen were prepared for the body, falling to their knees in prayer at adjacent sides of the shrine pool. Chanting as they'd done so...
The Maledictus limped into their proper position, with arms held out as though to behold the events taking place before him...

But the expression on their face spoke a different story...
It was one thing, to heal people... To heal their injuries that would've assured their imminent demise -- even if they... somehow rose from the alchemic cocktail brewing from the blood of their Patron, devoid of their flesh... But this? This wasn't close to the matters prior...
It felt, truly... Defined in an alternate light.

Perhaps, this was what horrified them the most -- For healing the dead, was impossible by all accords. Such matters never aligned with the stories of miracles from even the most benevolent of opposing patrons and pantheons alike... Yet, here they were, gazing upon such grotesque matters, heaved into the pool with a splash.

… Then, silence...
The dead did not walk, struggle, nor talk... Thus, by all ordinary accords, what should've followed, was more silence...
The chanting of the Herald's Oath stopped.

The air's chill ceased...
The burning succumbed to natural warmth...

Nothing.


The Maledictus did as he was told...
He listened to the voice in his head -- the voice that was supposed to be the Patron's own! He was to claim the body of Targis Wynfield under the cover of night, and place them within the body of bl--

A vibrant gleam of lavender shone through the vantablack waters...
(Etheric Presence)

The alchemical preservatives, mixed with the Patron's blood reacted to a combination of magics shimmering their ambiguous light from beneath its surface.

Beneath those waters... Terminus laid flat upon the bottom of the filled basin. Arms and legs extended out, with the bottom half of his jaw removed -- from the initial attempt to slay him from Za'agan. Oddly enough, despite such groteque damage hollowing out his body through his chest and abdomen? Not only did he live, he idled with the grievous injury... Studying the malady it bestowed upon him... Synchronizing it with the Patron's Mark, and calcifying the exterior of the Godseed beneath the void imbued within the chestal cavity.

Varrach's Death Magic sought to unmake it, yet failed...
Za'agan's magics sought to bleed it dry, yet failed...
Thus, the telekinetic rewiring of the external circuitry upon one's left arm was constantly improved upon, regenerating the discrepancies only to try again with better accuracy.

The newly found company with Targis Wynfield's corpse drifting through the depths of his shrine pool did not go unnoticed... Slowly, it'd fall...
And slowly, the sensation of entropy would be cast unto it. The essence of Null sought to find a new vessel, to funnel itself throughout the appendages and deteriorated organs where mana nexuses would lie. Mana would be gifted. It would be sifted...
Funnelled and refined, as though ink applied to a pen's tip. Upon the fingers, one would start... Down the arms... From the head, down the neck... Up the legs, and focusing where a heart should be...

Now, where a magic core would be...


"You have served me well in Life... Now, your vessel shall serve me for eternity. As promised...
Until The End...
Until, I Am...
A R I S E"

This was when the gleam of mana would take them, unwriting the scraps of most of their apparel, and unwrapping skin from shriveled muscular tissue. Telekinetic prowess would force the anatomy to shift, if only to properly ascertain one's application extended throughout the body.

The third time around, there would be no mistakes...

"No... Not quite..."

Or perhaps, there would still be yet another discrepancy.
Despite having an anchor to the soul, the last ingredient proved to be troubling...

"Where... Is.... Your... Soul...?"

Something made it back into the vessel, summoned forth akin to a firefly to a beaming light in the night...
But, it was not Targis that reclaimed their body...

One, such as Terminus was never one to reminisce so strongly on the value of the individual, common man...
After all, few had ever come to live long enough to comfort his doubts.

"Hmmm... Perhaps... You will do..."


It wasn't like last time...
The clergymen were instructed prior... Having armor and clothing ready for what would rise from the depths. The instructions were provided psionically... To obey his Tenets... To prioritize stealth above all else in their service...
To don His colors, that would claim a nation...
(Etheric Presence)


Something made it back.

Targis was once a good man. A regular nonmagus, a political man, with wife and children. A man with a future, with community. Devoted to Antefinem, a true patriot and man of the people.

Targis Wynfield is dead.

The flesh is peeled away, as his corpse sinks into the pool. What remained, withered and dissolved into the end. What burned and tattered apparel was left is simply eaten away to nothing. The skeleton shifts, a little, reassembling.

The patron had a solid grasp of one's function, one's structure, one's form- but... only an immensely powerful necromancer could truly have called Targis back from the grave- and their patron was no such being.

Not yet, at least.

Someone was dead.
Someone had died.
Someone lingered inside a star, essence slowly stripped away to pass on to the other world, soul steadily cleansing the last traces of it'sformer life- bits and pieces hanging on, memories being filed away for good. A step towards a new life, a new being, that is what it would be. Whatever cares or ails were had- they are lost to time, as the spirit moves on to it's afterlife, as the soul, ancient, lingers as it had dozens of times before. It packs away it's hopes, dreams, aspirations, neatly files them alongside the other lives it had lead over the centuries. Steadily prepares to embark again, onto another life.

Or at least, it would have, until the patron reaches.
Until the patron grasps, and seizes, and tears it from that celestial home.

Something. Someone. It makes itself at home, nestling into that empty skull, threading into dead circuits as a pulse of stolen life floods it's hollow vessel. A flicker. A tug. A seize, a twitch, a full body spasm from that vessel now claimed.

A sense of decay, of rot, settles down. Foulness, as the lifestream recoils in horror at the working of the presence. Foulness, as a body never intended to bear life is forced to move against nature's will, as a perversion of life is dragged screaming into the daylight of the world, and pushed upon it, something Wrong awakening.

Up, from the depths, does it float, in ivory clad. Orders are given, before it even has a chance to orient itself into the world. Up from the fluid it climbs, clumsy in it's motion, like one still getting used to the shape of their form. Still getting used to having limbs, and fingers, and teeth.

It stands tall, straight, looking to the mortals to it's left and right, holding it's arms out to be clothed and draped in armor and gear. Padding applied to it's bones, to fill out the garb it dons. The armor of Atnefinem, the red garb of their nation.

It does so in utter silence, until it turns towards the pit again, and what lay within. The faces of those who clothe and armor it are memorized, filed away. The constant, low level ache of it's existence- of rot- is suppressed, stealth prioritized. It doesn't understand the pain like others might. Cologne is applied generously, keeping any lingering stench at bay- even if it's a touch strong.

Without delay, without acknowledgement to the lesser, it turns towards the pit again, and kneels. Every motion is smooth, confident- and practiced, as though it were a trained soldier.

It had heard tenets, stealth, and service... but one thing remains. In a strong voice, he speaks, though his tone is filled with reverence.

"What is your command, my Lord?"
(Laurentius of Terminus)

"You inhabit the body of one slain by a giant of Jotunheim.
Za'agan Sun.
You exist to dispatch them, and rid the thorn from my side. Draw forth Entropy from those abroad Meranthe as necessary, freed of Antefinem's colors.

Provide me the essence necessary to raise more of your kin that had fallen by his hand... So that the day that we march upon the Jotunheim that protects him, all that stand with him falter in twain."


The instructions were simple... To go forth, and claim entropy from one's foes, and provide it back to their master so that they may prove a step closer to their unspoken ultimate goal.

"In wearing my colors, your instructions shall be delegated to those within Antefinem's hierarchy.

None will know your true nature.
Should one come to learn, have them brought to me...
Should one come to learn, beyond these borders?
Have them vanquished.

For as you walk upon these grounds, your name... Your vessel shall be hallowed by my name...
…Laurentius of Terminus...

But, to those that know your true nature...
You shall be my Wrath until repentless sinners abroad...
An extinguisher to their wanton dismay...
Mordeaux."

--and with that, one was dubbed...
And wrought to the world at large.

(Etheric Presence)

Orders are received and memorized, a purpose noted down.

Kill Za'agan Sun.
When not in antifinemite colors, fight abroad and draw in entropic power for the master.
Provide that power to the master, that more can be raised and that Jotunheim can be destroyed, the place that shelters Za'agan Sun.

From this moment forwards, there were two. There was Laurentius of Terminus, defender of democracy, a soldier of the city-state of Antefinem...

... and there was the undead, who reaved the countryside for entropy without care.
Never would they mix, for such would invite disaster.

Hallowed, by the name of Laurentius, to be a champion of Terminus, a pillar of his people- and that is all that he would be known as.

Yet to the undead, by the name of Mordeaux, it was to be a wrathful specter of decay, one to bring dismay and torment upon the many as it hunted.

None may know. For any who discovered this secret, they must be destroyed or brought to the master...

With that, Laurentius bows his head a moment deeper, intoning once again: "It will be done, my lord."

From there, he remains kneeling, until given permission to depart on his way into the world at large. A thing that should not be, beneath the helm- and when donned, a mere knight and soldier of the honored ones.

For the glory of his master, such was the nature of his being.
Naught else mattered. There were no questions of who he was, or what right was held, nor any illusion of fatherhood and camaraderie.

Laurentius, Modeaux, knew their purposes well. They knew who made them and why- and there was no need for anything else. The patron would not sense malice, nor anger, nor fear- only a blind acceptance, a fervent loyalty. A soldier's orders.
(Laurentius of Terminus)


|| Modern Day ||

''I didn't know the Patron could do that...'' responded the youth, to a still shocked Maledictus.

''Neither did I... Yet, I saw it with my own two eyes.'' There was a moment's pause, before they turned with vigor to grab at them, shake them even.

''Tell not a soul. Not a SINGLE one... You know as well as I, such words will be our last. Swear to me, child...
SWEAR!''

A heavy jolt, and the youthful clergyman answered abruptly.
''OKAY! OKAY!... Okay... I swear! I swear, on my life, I will tell not a soul... Usque Terminus.''

A brief moment of silence, and the Maledictus' expression softened somewhat. Confidence slowly drifted back to the fray...
Perhaps, it was time for a break.

(Etheric Presence)