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The battle lasted for so long, driving every bit of energy he had saved for the time of necessity to banish the falling forces of undead. They were so many, killed so many, and only a small number of his men lasted so long from his entire regiment. They fought well and fought hard, but when the war is over, he will not carry the guilt. And so, he permitted them to retreat back to safety while he gathered whatever bits of magic remained to summon a horde of undead for himself--- this will not be approved of, but both the king and his oh-so-dear brother have met their fate in the front lines, and so, no one will dare defy him. If he fell, however, it will signal the end of his throne, the end of his kingdom.

As the last herd of undead was banished, a deafening screech accompanied by immense heat and dark fog rose from where the undead had fallen, striking fear into the prince’s heart as the last hope the end this war vanished. It was a frightening sight, to witness the rise of the mighty king of the underworld. The largest, darkest and most terrorizing Dragon he hadn’t d a r e imagine. Alm’s heart may be soaking in fear, but he found himself delighted to drag the Underworld’s king out, and he refused to allow every single effort and sacrifice he had suffered to go to waste. Using every destructive spell his pathetic master had taught him, he attacked the Dragon King with all his might, then proceeded to summon waves of undead to assist the assault, however, not a single attack had fazed the dragon. If at all, it amused him.

A single whirl of his giant wings sent the prince flying back, and the hit to the ground was far more painful than it should’ve been---tired, worn out, exhausted---and as he attempted to get up, the claws of the dragon were quick to press upon his chest and arms, pinning him in place. They were sharp and slow, painfully digging into the flesh and drawing blood, his robes soaking in a deep crimson--- Lord, he is going to die witnessing the Fall of Paltierre as the last, rightful heir is murdered by the Underworld king; and it’s such a waste...

Alm drew out the last of his breath, blood pooling beneath him as his eyes closed to the dragon’s mocking words, the last words to be heard before he departed this world. Somehow, he heard his father speak them.

#glancereviver #;; rp #long post #&& ( hc. )

“HELLO SISTER........................WRIST.”

#glancereviver #lenneth ur a weirdass all-mother

"What say you of Silmeria's imprisonment, Sister. . .?"

“AN INTERESTING QUESTION, that you would ask me. Granted that you know we are of different times, I hold no approval towards the circumstances of her imprisonment, nor do I blame her for her defiance. Odin’s actions were wrong and unjust. All I do know is her factor within my own world is causing it to crumble, in a way, so I would see her restored — as a sister and as guardian of that world. Surely even you think the same, Hrist?”

#ic;#glancereviver #v:[CREATOR GODDESS]#(SUMMONS.)

She would have died for them.

Death. Was there ever a time where it did not surround her, almost as if a testament to her own mortality? Where the dead did not pile at her feet, where she could march onward without the accompaniment of a soldier’s final moments at her back? No, death was a song the brunette knew all too well, a melody that shattered promises and plans, hopefulness and hearts--a verse so common that it could now, over time, merely be labeled as routine.

And when fate had dictated that it was time to comprise the lyrics of their names, there was no ‘blaze of glory,’ like in the tales Mother seemed to so effortlessly breathe life into during story time. How long had it been, now? The memories, they felt so distant all of a sudden.

Come to think of it, those stories--they had forgotten to mention the pain. The fire that would shoot through her frame in time with every panting breath, an agony that could cripple even the strongest of her classmates as they broke a sweat simply trying to hold their own weight. Those stories had glanced over the notion that death was not always swift or fair or heroic or noble or just; a romanticized reconstruction of something that could reduce even Class Zero to tears.

... They had left out the fear.

Yes, Deuce would have gladly died for any of her beloved comrades. Instead, she had ultimately met her fated end alongside them. She supposed it was a fitting resolution, really. And while it would be an empty fabrication to claim that her bravery had not wavered in those final moments, they had managed to conclude their own story with smiles, laughter--even hope. And maybe, just maybe, that was the whole point.

... Don’t you think... We were all destined to meet...?

So, why was she here? Where even was here? Was this... Valhalla...? The musician’s head was weighed down with grogginess. Her vision, still blurred from a lingering trace of unconsciousness. Where was she? Where were her classmates?

“Is this... Am I dead...?”