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Open Starter/Pale Drake's Ascension
The Burning in your blood, I'm the venom in your veins. Sunlight bled into the open throne room, a single man in pale white armor sat in the old battered throne, a polished mahogany pipe in his hand. The man took a deep puff from his pipe, which seemed to light on its own as he inhaled, his piercing viridian scanning over the carnage; an army unlike any he'd seen before tried to lay siege to his castle the night before, they had failed quite spectacularly. Each body lying on dead on the floor of his home had a story, a family, someone who would miss them, and they chose to die so pathetically. He would commit their last moments to his memory, as he'd done for each fallen fool before them. The man who cut off his arm, but could not see the arm forming out of the flame from his torch. The Elf girl who tried to sneak up on him, but was unaware that his blood alone could burn through stone, easily able to melt flesh. What a magnificent spray. The boy who accused him of bewitching the boy's mother. He wanted to let the boy escape, but the boy would not leave, he kept attacking, despite his pleas, despite the boy's injuries. The demigod who called him a false idol, a lie, and a coward. Demi proved to be inadequate, perhaps a real God could have provided a challenge. The demon prince, seeking vengeance for his father, but to bear the name Lucifer, one must live up to a certain standard, if you're found lacking, you'll not survive his wrath. Many more had come as well, such as the 2000 dead Orcs, who thought numbers would change the tide of battle. An ocean of flame cares not for how many warriors you feed it. The army of men, 1300 strong, 1300 dead, blades of solidified flame rained down upon them, their shields, their armor, these things meant nothing as they were melted upon contact with the hail of crystal fire. The man exhaled, a gout of smoke trailed up out through the giant hole in the ceiling of this grand hall, he couldn't seem to recall a time when his ceiling was whole, was it always this way? The scars of the night's battle had already healed, though, 'heal' may not be the best term for it, they were gone, and he was whole once more, there was only one scar that he could not rid himself of, and that was still plain as day slitting his right brow vertically, continuing down to his cheek, stopping at his cheekbone, where the blade had glanced off. He'd let his silver hair grow out some in his time since he'd taken up residence once again here at his castle, it draped down to his shoulders. He'd recently taken up the spear, and he liked the way his hair caught the wind as he would dive down from the sky to plunge his polearm into his enemies. His teeth clenched onto his pipe as he took up his helmet in his right hand, slipping it back onto his head, the helm only covered the top half of his head, and had a draconic motif; shaped like the head of a wyvern, the front came into a pointed snout, while two emerald eyes covered his own, another pair of matching optics sat just above his own, and two tall fins trailed up the left and right side of his head, last was a pair of long, thin horns that curved backward at an angle located near the back. The lone warrior rose to his feet, grasping the shaft of his odd spear; it stood a good head taller than himself, the entire weapon was made of solid white flame that took on a more metallic look, mimicking silver, but the most strange part of it was the head; instead of a normal spearhead, or a short blade, the head was a wide sword-like blade that gave the weapon at least another three feet of reach. "It's time...The Black Flame becomes the Pale Drake; I can no longer sit by and watch as this world changes, as these fools destroy each other. The Flame shall cleanse this world, and it shall be reborn from the ashes, I will give them new life, as I did once before. Flame shall be their guide, and perhaps we will not reach this point again, when men would raise swords against their own Gods." He declared, his eyes focused on a shape standing in the entranceway to his grand hall, the great wooden doors long since removed from its hinges by the crude siege forces of the night before. "I do not speak for my own benefit, whoever you are, you know what my mission is, how will you respond? Can you stop a God who has looked upon your world and found naught but lost wretches, and damned fools? Or are you here for revenge, as well? Perhaps you believe I've caused a volcano to erupt, or that I've burned down your crops in anger. Speak your name." He continued, the last three words ringing through the air as if shouted, they seemed to reverberate through the area, through the minds of anyone who could hear them. He awaited a reply, with the hopes that this one would be different, that they could show him something new. (This is an open starter, anyone can reply to this in a message, don't worry about matching the length or anything, just please give me something interesting.)
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