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Sacrifical Lamb Act I
Topic Started: Jan 11 2009, 12:06 PM (132 Views)
Rippah Da Kid
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…Sacrifice… seems to be imbedded in the immeasurable history of man symbolizing the grim reminder of what despicable measures man will convert to, while fueled by ambition, prejudice, and rage. A few brave souls caste into the pits of fire that made up the afterlife and death were nothing but a small inconvenience when compared to the ‘greater good’, it wasn’t a fair trade but it was viewed as the most ‘humane’. The irony is if the world were sparred from human emotions such as jealousy, gluttony, or lust for power then humane decisions such as sacrifice would be obsolete and not needed. Unfortunately the world is occupied by flawed being that live life with the must savage of urges raping and pillaging the world of all its good nature and peace, until there is nothing left but oblivion and ruin. Sacrifice is defined as surrender or obliteration of something of desirable value for a ideal or object of a more significant worth, such as life and what precious treasure does this world contain that is more precious than even life? This was a particular conundrum that Markill Kyru of Niblehiem would soon unlock the answer too.

“Doctor I have the target in my sights, he has relocated to Wutai since our last encounter.”

“Good I want that specimen for research… bring him to me!”

“Order confirmed, Omega out.”

Markill found himself trekking through one of the many deserted regions of Wutai, which since the horrible war had now become a land vacant of life. Wutai was now a substandard shell of its former beauty, which had been marred and defaced by warfare and the ambitions of man, which once stood as a independent nations on the disconnected Isle was nothing more but a haven for beast and war vets. Markill went as far as to refer to the lands as a canvas of crimson free of art or beauty, which meant that the lands were tainted in the blood of hundreds of soldiers and innocents alike, Wutai was nothing more than a symbol or desperations and fatalities. As Markill continued his lonesome journey he couldn’t help but feel as if he were being watched or anticipated by some waiting peril, maybe it was the eerie history of these lands that had Markill’s nerves rattled or maybe there were some unforeseen turmoil looming. But as if drifting into the harmonic songs of the Sirens of old Greek mythology Markill couldn’t help but to journey onward despite what treachery could be awaited him.

Soon dawn became night and the ebony skies were not kind to the wayward journeyman, sure the lunar skies masked his identity and location allowing him to travel in tranquility and secretiveness but, it also left his fate to the elements leaving him wondering around blindly into the ebony veil that was the night skies. Soon all was silent even the very winds halted there swaying of the trees and flowers, Markill seem to be alone a social status that he had grown accustomed to over the heartbreaking years of his life. Soon the calm and collected demeanor that Markill was accustomed to displaying disappeared as the ominous atmosphere overwhelmed his emotions. His mind began to race putting a sinister intention behind every noise that he heard through the night skies, beads of sweat began to hurry down his face, as he grew progressively more agitated and frightened.

The portentous sensation would soon take a more physical and menacing form than the thoughts racing through the psyche of Markill, to his extreme dislike movements could be heard coming towards him. Images of grotesque and blood lusting beasts and ghouls flashed through the mindset of Markill, as the anticipation mounted he found himself clinching the ivory handle of his blade…one thing was for sure whatever beast approached would have to struggle for their feast. Fortunately as the advancing creatures got near Markill could make out a few voices to his relief, he began to calm but, it would seem that fate hadn’t the heart to allow Markill to continue onward in peace. Soon the group of strangers was in plain view traveling in a squadron of six each one ornamented in what seem to be military equipment. As the men reached Markill’s position they all halted in their paths and focused their attention on the lone warrior from Niblehiem…then one of the soldiers stepped from the rear and spoke.

“You are Markill Kyru of Niblehiem. You will come with us.”
Edited by Rippah Da Kid, Jun 11 2009, 02:07 PM.
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…Lonesomeness… or dejection due to the lack of companionship, some would go as far as to call it ‘desertion’ or ‘solitude’. These phrases though indeed powerful and true aren’t nearly strong enough or even factual enough to depict true lonesomeness. To experience ‘desertion’ or ‘solitude’ one must first have associated themselves with cohorts or at least experienced some showing of companionship, only to have them ripped away resulting in the relationship becoming decaying relics of memories. But what is it to be truly alone? When you are constantly surrounded by inhabitants of men and women who are too sightless to see or too egotistical to care that one is hurting or deeply depressed. When your tolerance for all other besides yourself has all but vanished, when you can’t even look upon the visage of another humanbeing without combating urges of resentment, loathing, and even violence. A truth that Markill had become all to acquainted with even as he stood there surrounded by a populace of six unique individuals…he couldn’t feel anymore alone.

“Me…come with you?” Markill nearly scoffed at such a ridicules demand, despite his growing anxiety he managed to mockingly ask: “And to whom do I owe this pleasant acquaintance too?”

“Doctor. Povlak requests your immediate extraction from these lands and a safe journey to his headquarters.” His voice was cold and emotionless it could be closely compared to the enunciation of a machine or robot of some kind.

Markill now was growing progressively agitated and couldn’t help but look upon these pitiful souls with eyes of extreme prejudice and ill intentions. “The path I walk does not in anyway intertwine with the likes of you or the lowly mad man you answer too. Either I bid you farewell and continue my path or I bid you farewell as the life-stream welcomes your disgraceful souls.”

Not another word needed to be mentioned the hostile ambiance was all that was needed to make it crystal clear that the tranquil night skies would be disturbed by the dismal sounds of battle. Markill’s muscle tensed and his brunette gazed intensified, they were the windows to war and massacre and foreshadowed the lengths in which Markill was willing to go in order to defend his honor and his life. The look in his eyes crudely illustrated a fable of anguish, lost, and sacrifice too look directly into his sunburned pupils was to behold death and combat in its purist form. He reached downed grasping the marvelous oak that made up the handle of his equally magnificent blade with thoughts of homicide and slaughter on his mind, he was ready to go to the brink of damnation and show all that opposed him the grotesque countenance of utter oblivion.

“Then we shall take you by force then. Fox! Raven! Blue! Convince our target to join us peacefully.”

With the mere utterance of these orders three of the six assailants move forward, each one with facial features crudely decorated by gazes void of compassion or peace, there was only loathing and the sickening lust for blood in them. Each one of the men were festooned in black military attire, which made it exceedingly difficult to make out any distinct features. The three men almost simultaneous drew their weapons, the metallic screech of steel being released from its prison made the already bloodcurdling atmosphere even more daunting than it original already was. The swords seem to be products of mass manufacturing none of the three blades seem to have any unique features of any kind. They were almost brute in the way there were constructed the craftsmen possessed rudimentary skills and it showed in his barbaric craftsmanship. These assailants weren’t swordsmen they were nothing by savages with swords of barbaric construction, they knew nothing of honor nor the ‘true’ path of the sword…the blades they wielded were nothing but weapons while Markill’s was an extension of his soul.

"Then your fate is sealed." Markill exclaimed with a sneer of pure hatred, but a distinct sense of joy could be found in his words. In a sadistic and twisted way Markill found a certain type of bliss or some twisted elation if you will. This happiness however was free of compassion or good-will, there was only a urging thirst for battle that seem to overwhelm ever fiber of his being.
Edited by Rippah Da Kid, Jan 14 2009, 06:03 PM.
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…Combat… The engagement of warfare or as Markill so passionately refers to it, the commitment of the nonsensical slaughter of the ignorant, the pathetic, and the naive inhabitants of this world. Markill’s dear ‘mother’ once told him that there were only two things constant in the world and those two things were ‘change’ and ‘conflict’, a statement that was unfortunately and regrettably more of a reality than she would have ever imagined. The very thought of it all was quite amusing to Markill, this made him the offspring of a prophet, and how fitting was it that a boy who has dedicated his life to warfare and bereavement be the son of a prophet that spoke words of damnation. Life was a viscous circle forever changing throughout the eras, decades, and centuries that have gone and passed, but one thing still remains…war. Dating back to the beginning of man’s existence when rudimentary tools were used to craft simple weapons of savagery, all the way to the present day where war is fought with politics and weapons of mass destruction. One fact is truly evident and that is war is a bitter and malevolent piece of mankind’s history and unfortunately the future as well.

“I am Fox and I will defeat you where you stand, then bring you back to the Doctor for a luxurious reward.”

The voice’s owner would soon be revealed as one of the three combat-ready assailants stepped forward. He wasn’t great in stature but his sinister demeanor more than made up for his lack in size; the untidy locks of blond that fell from his head covering his face crudely highlighted his daunting facial features. He wore a savage smirk of absolute satisfaction it would seem that the very thought of bloodshed and fighting brought him a sense of euphoria, much like Markill before him his lust for battle seemed to border exhilaration and psychosis. Each warrior seemed to be ready to lay down their lives for this particular moment, ready to take each other to the threshold of damnation and obliteration…all for this moment. He held his sword out pointing the razor edge towards the torso of Markill in a threatening fashion; the crudely constructed steel shimmered in the lunar skies… unsophisticated yet elegant. In his twisted psyche he was challenging Markill to a duel of swordsmen, reassuring him that it would be a fair battle…no number games. Although Markill questioned his honor and morality, he had to admit they had one thing in common and that was expressing one’s soul through encounters and conflict.

It wasn’t long before the spine-chilling song of steel being unsheathed rang out through the night skies; Markill had finally released the marvelous Rapture from its dormant resting place. Much like a beast of elegance and refinement the sword shimmered with the radiance of stars, its exquisiteness was only dwarfed by its elevated capacity to exterminate lives. Just as the assassin Fox did earlier Markill moved his magnificent blade directly in front of him, silently urging Fox to advance. The atmosphere was reaching a climactic peak, but oddly enough no a word or a sound had been uttered for quite sometime in fact even the environment seemed to be stricken with an ailment of silence. It was as if the very heavens were bracing themselves for the unholy proceedings that were to take place on this very night. The first step in defeating an opponent is to find some kind of mental ‘center’ or focus point in which all of your thoughts are tamed and your focus is dedicated to one goal and that being victory. Both of these warriors seem to hold this fact to be true so the most important element of war proceeded. Both warrior were yet to utter another piece of dialog instead they just stood there with eyes wild with passion and anticipation, even in the darkness their gazed burned brightly through the ebony haze of night like wildfire engulfing and eradicating everything in its wake, leaving only ashes and smoldering relics of the passed.

Both there eyes were intense and almost seemed savage…no barbaric and monstrous in they’re lust for blood. It was as if nothing else in the universe had the slightest or trivial of meaning to these two combatants, all that mattered to them was battle. The world seem to be at a stand still as the two warriors faced off the haunting atmosphere seemed to foreshadow the bereavement and savagery that were to take place on this unholy night, even the wildlife of the lands seemed to withdraw to their very own sanctuary. Suddenly the battle had reached its second most important phase and that was called ‘feeling out one’s opponent’, and without a spoken word the two warriors began circling each other in hopes of finding a imperfection in defense or an advantage in proficiency.


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Rippah Da Kid
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…Anticipation… The act of pleasurable expectations or simple the act of looking forward. Anticipation or eagerness is closely associated with pleasure or excitement, when one anticipates he or she is considered to be overwhelmed with a longing that is somewhat ecstatic in nature. Usually pleasurable longing manifest when the host seeks after something of immense importance or a source of happiness. There is however another source of wanting or longing that doesn’t stint from valuables or treasures, but from emotions and actions and these types of longings can prove to be quite powerful causing the host to act almost fanatic in he or she’s desperation to fulfill the longing. Markill Kyru of Niblehiem and the assassin Fox were prime examples of when one’s anticipation twist into a darkened and evil lust. Their primal urges are manifestation of their longings and desires being focused around negativity, so much so that their ability to distinguish between pleasure and anguish have diminished and nearly broken. When one lust after war, vengeance, or death as if it were sources of happiness their psyche have become extremely unstable, resulting in actions and thoughts of pure wickedness and immorality to bring on emotions of amusement and even happiness.

“The first move belongs to you, cretin!” Markill’s words were heartless and aim to hurt but it was the look of pure ruthlessness and prejudice that stood behind the words that signified the point of no return.

Those remarks were only greeted with a smirk of extreme conceit from the assassin, Fox. Although he smiled the masquerade of arrogance he displayed could not mask the annoyance that such a discourteous remark invoked, soon the anger pushed him into a mindset of reckless abandon as he fiercely charged Markill. The muffled repetition of footsteps from the raging Fox reached a tempo of immense speed, and before Markill was the first bit aware Fox had already closed the distance between the two of them. “His speed is inconceivable…” Without moments hesitation Fox raised his sword high into the air and brought it crashing towards the reeling Markill, who had only manage to snap out of his stupor long enough to bring his own blade up in defense. Suddenly the vacant night skies were awakened by the deafening screech of steel clashing with steel, as the first attack was successfully parried by Markill, the attack although superior in speed surprisingly didn’t send Markill reeling backwards in recoil. The first encounter made two facts clear, the first being that Fox surpassed Markill in swiftness and nimbleness, and the second being that Markill was indeed stronger. However there was one more advantage that Markill could excel in and that was…

“Your striking abilities are slightly greater than rudimentary, you are undisciplined and barbaric in your technique!”

These words intern invoked the rage and violence of Fox, he charged once more this time with greater speed and eviler intentions. His eyes were ablaze glowing with passion border lining insanity and overzealous, he snarled loudly as he swung his barbaric sword towards Markill trying to exterminate the swordsmen from Niblehiem. The first attempt was successfully parried again sending a metallic crash throughout the night skies as sparks danced off of the two blades like tangoing ambers. Once again the attack was blocked without recoil or difficulty it would seem that his superior speed was not great enough to make up for his very fundamental knowledge of swordsmanship, after all what was blinding speed without the capacity to cause damage. In infuriated Fox continued his onslaught of wild strikes from his sword, but to no prevail it would seemed that all attempt on Markill’s life were in vain. Fox was becoming increasingly agitated so much to the point that he abandoned the modest technique that he indeed possessed for wild savage thrusts, he was becoming impatient and foolish and his lack of discipline showed itself in his deteriorating technique. Markill found comfort in Fox’s display of unmanageable emotions and lack of technique, he planned to use these to his advantage and cut down the pathetic soul swiftly and without remorse.

“Your judgment is at hand! And much like an angel that has fallen from heavens grace, you shall be cast down into the pits of oblivion and death!”

As Fox continued to savagely attack Markill without thought and without technique, the brilliant swordsman from Niblehiem plotted his counterattack, an attack that would extinguish Fox’s existence and leave Markill with enough endurance to battle the rest of the assailants. Markill began to retreat backwards as he parried all of the advancing attacks from his raging opponent, with each unsuccessful attack, Fox would find himself slipping deeper and deeper into a world of fatigue and limitations, a compromising position that Markill would exploit without compassion. Soon pants of sheer exhaustion and fatigue replaced the deafening snarls of the infuriated Fox, even the glare in his eyes changed, from a once sadistic glare of bloodlust to a self-doubting glance of desperation. The uncertainty that shrouded the eyes of Fox was all the indication Markill needed to know that this climatic battle was reaching its final chapters, with a face animated by a cruel and self-assuring smirk Markill forced Fox backwards with his blade and started his advance. Fox was sent reeling, Markill already was superior in strength and coupled with Fox ‘s fatigue and lack of skills he had no way of really defending himself. As Fox stumbled backwards Markill raised the Rapture and brought the marvelous blade downward across the torso of his fleeing opponent, crimson mist spewed into the skies creating a maroon veil that shimmered in the lunar light. Fox fell down to the ground finding himself overwhelmed by pain and overcome by fear.

“May the life-stream embrace your pitiful soul with arms of acceptance.”

With that sentence uttered Markill raised the crimson tinted blade high above his head and in one swift movement brought it crashing downwards on the defenseless assailant…obliterating his wretched existence. The death of Fox could only be explained as a artful massacre or an poetic death it was truly… “…Exquisite…”

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…Honorable Death… Also referred to a hero’s death, in which one gives his or her life for a nation, for lives, or even a single belief. As for Fox and Markill and others like them this was the fabled ending of their existence… the much anticipated and sought after conclusion of their lives if you will. Too warriors like Markill death by the sword was an ending fit not just for honorable men but for gods as well, a death that would forever memorialize them not only as heroes but as symbols of hope, encouragement, and resolve for generations of mankind that would otherwise be void of such naďve beliefs. Thus destined the life of whoever walked the path of the sword, a path full of treachery and bereavement, relationships with no emotional attachment, a life time of battles and animosities, all for the singe goal of one day becoming a metaphoric representation of a single belief that would help future inhabitants of the world prosper. One would have to be either very foolish or very selfless to be so willing to engage in combat and constantly have their lives teetering between the realms of life and death, all off the hopes of someday helping empower a nation with their sacrifice. Yes! Foolish or selfless indeed…or maybe just blood thirsty.

The autumn air was tainted by the wretched scent of bloodshed, as a result of the climatic end of Fox’s and Markill’s menacing swordfight. Markill forced his crimson soaked blade from the empty vessel that once held the pitiful soul of Fox, after retrieving the blade Markill couldn’t help but stare in awe at the broken mound of flesh that once attacked him with such aggression and abhorrence. In particular Markill’s eyesight was mysteriously drawn to Fox’s face which was covered in a maroon veil of both blood and the autumn foliage, the body was a gruesome sight to behold but even more terrifying was the fact that Fox’s face was crudely decorated by a smirk of pure ill-will. It would seem even in death the pure indulgence he got from battle displayed its ugly head in form of a smile: “The irony is almost overwhelming, how such an innocent display of joy and bliss such as a smile, be twisted into such a vile manner as to adorn the face of this bloodthirsty cretin?” Markill found no compassion in his soul for the fallen swordsmen in fact he felt that a death by his blade was the closes Fox would ever come to becoming honorable again. Now disregarding the fallen opponent Markill now turned his attention to ‘The Rapture’ his most marvelous blade, which now shimmered in the lunar skies with a burgundy tint, unfortunately this would not be the last bloodshed the marvelous blade would adorn. With a quick motion Markill forced the blade out of the air and down to his side relieving it of the taint of blood; the crimson liquid dispersed through the air and covered the foliage below. After doing so Markill slowly fixated his demonic gaze on the rest of the remaining assailants, then he slowly and sinisterly raised his blade, pointing the razor sharp end towards them. “Next…”

Just in an instance the tranquil silence of the forest was broken by a thunderous chuckle resonating from one of the men from the squadron, the host of such a sinister laugh would soon be identified as one of the men made his advance. Out of the silhouetted group stepped a man gargantuan in stature, he easily towered over the previous opponent they sent out and Markill himself was dwarfed by the man in sheer size. He wore the same type of military uniform as Fox did and seemed to be just as willing to put his life in jeopardy as his fallen comrade before him. His face was sinisterly decorated by a beard of massive proportions which hung off of his cheeks and chin like the leaves of a ‘Weeping Willow’, the beard covered most of his face which by itself gave him a freighting visage, but it was his eyes that sent a chill up the spine of Markill. “Those eyes…” The eyes of the man were ebony orbs void of any white or life for that matter, from his pupil to his iris were all shadows… too look into his eyes were to look into the depths of darkness. This man was truly a monster or maybe some grotesque results of some failed experiment, whatever his origin he sure wasn’t human. Soon the giant began chuckling again and between laughs he managed to speak in a deafening voice.

“Since it is customary as a last courtesy to tell the victim the name of their killer, I am the one called Blue! You have some pretty good moves in your arsenal, however they will not help you in our battle.”
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…Bereavement… Or simple death, the extermination of life when the soul exits the vessel and travels to plains of nonexistence that mere mortal minds could never understand or imagine. No one really knows what’s on the other side but we all know the imprint that death can have on the living, whether it be inspiring a nation out of the obscurities of hopelessness or the anguish and depression that takes hold of one’s emotions after losing a love one. For obvious reasons death is a step that most humans are terrified of, but the act of dying and taking a life are two different things entirely. Sure losing a love one can have catastrophic effects on one’s mind state, but having the taint of blood on your hands is a fate much worst. This is a truth that Markill knows all too well, following the path of sword as he does has resulted in him being thrown into perilous wars of power and bloodshed. In which has both lost loves ones and taken life, if one were to examine the blade of Markill Kyru then they would find a story of bloodshed and endless combat.

Just as the giant spoke to Markill he then reached behind him as if trying to obtain something from his back, Markill readied his blade with anxiousness, enthusiastically anticipating the next move from his opponent. The giant of a man slowly pulled from his back a sword that was almost as gargantuan as himself; the sword could only be described as a extension of his soul as it took on similar features of its host. The blade itself much like its owner dwarfed many if not all swords in these lands in pure size; the blade was marred by dents and chips undoubtedly from past encounters of the violent kind. All in all, the blade matched its owner very well in its gigantic size and in its savage appearance. As Markill further examined the blade the owner of it made his move, he started by waving the blade around like a mad man, chuckling the whole time as if war, death, and even seeing his comrade cut down was nothing but a joke to him. “I hated Fox, but at least he showed intelligence of some kind no matter how low. But this fool…this fool seems to have lost all sanity; he’s nothing more than a wild dog.” Markill’s thoughts began to manifest in his facial features as a sneer of pure disgust crudely decorated his face. Just then the man made his move charging towards Markill!

“READY or NOT! HERE I COME!”

The man’s stature was incredible deceptive as he moved through the darkened forest with swiftness and nimbleness that a creature of his mass should not posses. The ground below buckled under the massive weight of Blue and cried out in the form of tremors, sending vibrations out that woke the very forest from its tranquil slumber. Markill was taken aback by the speed of the massive opponent, but more so by the savage and undisciplined way he charged into battle. The juggernaut flailed his massive blade through the air like some juvenile at play, he had left himself vulnerable to attacks and even worst he hadn’t even attempted to mask is true attentions. Markill could have easily taken advantage of the opens left by talentless adversary, but he was at a distinct…the last fray left him a bit fatigued. The charging Blue finally came into his ideal striking range and lowered the enormous blade towards the stationary Markill. The speed in which he lashed out with the sword was inconceivable, the fact that he was able to move such a large object which such relative ease was a testament to his inhuman-like strength. “Move!!” Markill finally convinced his fatigued stricken legs to cooperate with him as he barely jumped back and relieved himself of being struck with such a vile force. As the blade collided with the surface seemed to erupt in debris and soil as if the sword caused the very ground to explode. “What power! How can anyone posses such abilities to cause destruction on this level?”

Before Markill was even able to finishes pondering he was once again thrust into the act of retreating, as Blue recovered his blade out of the soil filled crater and once gain made his advance. Markill knew that he would succumb to fatigue if he wasn’t quick in dispatching this opponent, but he more he steadied the Blue’s action the more painstakingly clear it became to him. “He’s not undisciplined or fanatical…he’s fearless.” It would seem that Markill was wrong about Blue the entire time, confusing fearlessness with foolishness, the man was far from talentless and death was nothing but a word to him. He rushed Markill as if he believed that he was immortal, immune to the reapers grasp…he looked forward to a warriors death even more so than Markill Kyru. “In that case I won’t play around with you, Blue! I’ve seen firsthand your true nature and your capacity for oblivion…I’m impressed and both satisfied. Now I have someone of worth to demonstrate my new technique! I will defeat you with one immaculate strike from my flawless blade…”

…Flashback…
The atmosphere was deafened by a terrible explosions, which was soon illustrated by flying debris and settling smog. As the dust began to clear up and loosen its choking grasp on the surrounding area a figure could be seen. The silhouette belonged to Markill Kyru who stood in front of a stump that undoubtedly belong to a much grander tree at some point in time, the stump was full of splinters and uneven edges as if being hacked down by a novice axe man. Just then another figure approached Markill and spoke with the enthusiasm of youth and the righteousness of a saint. “Kyru! What was that crash, are you okay?” Markill only smirked at his comrade and pointed to a downed tree with a face full of pride. “Edgar I have created a new technique and its quite exquisite.”


“One move, eh? Why don’t you just try?”

Markill quickly awakened from his memoirs of old and redirected his attention to Blue and with a smirk of reassurance he then sheathed his blade. Markill stared at Blue with eyes wild of passion and loathing…this signified the point of no return the next exchange would be the last for one of these brave souls. With that the final exchange would commence as both charged each other with the crudeness of intentions, When they were in striking distance Markill contorted his torso and sent ‘The Rapture’ catapulting out of its scabbard! “Hidden Rapture Style! Quick Draw!” Within a split second the two men were standing parallel of each other with their backs facing one another, Markill fell to one knee with a smirk of pure satisfaction on his face: “May the life-stream welcome your pitiful soul!” With that Blue let out an inaudible gasp and fell to the ground, his lifeless vessel would feed this forest for years to come. Soon after that Markill himself found himself slipping into a state of fatigued forced slumber.

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