Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190303210034/@comment-30014014-20190403043828

"So does falter the descendant, rejected, rebuked, rescinded. Far from the genesis brought about by his ancestor, his progenitor. A bloody pile, he turns to be..." Host-Prad briefly turns from the triad confronted to each other, his gem left to float in the opposite direction. An act he delightfully strives to partake in as his eyes direct themselves to the seemingly screeching gem.

A whisper to it. A whisper, to the dying. Humans "My kin. My brothers. My sisters. Massacred by the slaves of an old god. An old god reborn by those who pretended to shelter you. The same who sent you to die at his armies' maws..."

Slowly did the souls of the dead begin to squirm at his words echoes from the gem...to their ears. Their own and only, a different tone for each one "..the same who sent you to his armies' maws, while they crawl in their pits...their mansions...their palaces, safe from the beasts of the night..."

The bodies of the deceased grumble subtly, a large 'X' dotting the very face in which they were forcefully departed form the living world "Hear my voice, my kin. These things still rampage about. Our kind, still living among these freaks fear for their lives. They scream, they shriek, they schreech. Would you not claw at the very things that ended your lives?"

The bodies now violently vibrate, slowly irradiating a foul aura. One...of corruption. A hainous corruption washed up over the bodies as a tide would do.

Host-Prad gently clutches the gem, drawing it to his bosom, influencing it with his grasp "Good. Then death is but a chance at vengeance, my kin. Wake from your eternal slumber. These things beg for retribution, as those hiding in their walls do. Wake up!!!"

Suddenly and with great violence, Host-Prad raises his gem to the sky, letting forth countless shackles seeping from it. Thorned and jagged shackles gleaming in a malevolent light. Shackles that drive directly into the deceased civilians from the invaders. The humans, be they men, women or children, all that died is pierced by a shackle. The sky fills with the dancing chains of metal, cutting away at the beasts as they seek their targets.

Soon enough, with every human dead pierced, the shackles recede. Slowly. Slowly dragging a shape from the body, ethereal in nature, as are the chains harrowing. A shape of the deceased, bearing a cross in place of facial features. A jet black cross, reminescent of a holy cross, only, dark.

The spirits. The souls. The remnants. Swelling with hatred, with malice, tear at the shackles pulling them from the bodies. Sharpened nails. Ephemeral bodies. A brooding grudge. These things, visible to all, look to the nearest vampire, the mindless kind. A chorus of unholy schreeches don their ears as the first lunges at the nearest. With eldritch strength, it rips the thing asunder.

And then a second...

And a third...

A fourth...

The remnants of the dead now sought those that killed them, guttering unintellegible tones as they violently took the unending tide apart. Soldiers of the man armored in dark, clutching his gem, vehemently empowering them as he watched his kin visiting blind vengeance to those that once killed them...