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The Eye of Terror: Battle of the Eidolon Wastelands (Part III)

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Cameron:
Abbadon breathes heavily as he swings around to face the group of companions fighting him once more. He is bloodied and bruised, but not yet close to beaten. Blood drips from the Talon of Horus, and the demon sword Drach'nyen howls with fury, it's thirst unquenched.

He gazes on the remaining companions. They have put up an amazing fight. He cannot remember the last time he had been challenged to this degree. Yet this battle has raged for far too long. Most moments pass like an instant to the close to immortal Chaos warrior, but this fight... it feels like he has been fighting this fight for years.

Some of the companions have fallen by the wayside. The one known as Diego had apparently run out of ammo and had retreated. Abbadon had not bothered to trace him: he would hunt down anyone remaining after he had finished with these fools. If Diego was lucky, he would be struck down by another before Abbadon located him.

He had controlled the one known as Sypher like a puppet for some time, but the creature had wrested enough control away from him to escape through a warp gate. Abbadon assured himself that the creature would not be making the mistake of venturing into the Eye again.

The insolent Xeno, who had taken Abbadon's money willingly enough but then had turned on him quickly once money was offered from the other side... predictable. He had out up a good fight, but had been predictably... disposed of.

But still, these fools press on. And Abbadon is starting to feel the battle taking it's toll. His armor is cracked. He feels pain in places that he forgot he could even feel pain in. His helm has split in two, and with a swift gesture, he rips it from his head. His pale, scarred face is revealed. His eyes are unblinking black pools, threatening to devour the soul of anyone who makes eye contact. And he grins, revealing teeth that were sharpened into points long ago. His soul aura whirls about him, filled with the screaming faces of his countless victims, and he speaks to the warriors before him.

"I must admire your tenacity. But the time for games is over. Come to me, so that we may end this farce!"

Abbadon hovers off the ground and awaits the mortal who would be foolish enough to be the first to strike.

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BATTLE!
Opponent: Abbadon the Despoiler (2nd Round)
Number of Enemies: 1
Difficulty: Boss
God-Modding: Fuck no.

There is an OOC companion post for this post, read before replying.

Soul Reaver:
The battle had raged fiercely until now, and this momentary lull most certainly would not last.  Even so, it was a chance to survey the situation.

Soul Reaver stood, his body streaked with blood from the battle - much of it his own, some of it not.  His cape was torn, and his armour showed numerous rents and chips.  His shoulders heave as he takes deep breaths, and both his hands are locked on Blooddrinker's hilt with almost feverish strength.

With every blow that had been struck, he had felt more power welling up within him, burning through his veins, scorching him from within.  He felt like a sealed vessel, still filling with flame despite being ready to burst.  His hatred for Abaddon almost made him sick.

Not once during the battle had his eyes wavered from his quarry.  He watches as Abaddon rises into the air and issues his challenge, probing for a weakness, for a moment of distraction.  None arrive.

Then he would create his own.

Even as Abaddon still speaks, Soul Reaver bares his teeth as he murmurs words of magic.  The syllables sound strange and distorted, falling from his lips like a toxic ichor.  As he speaks, his magic swirls around him, and a distant metallic clinking can be heard.

Soul Reaver shouts back at Abaddon defiantly.

"I will take that challenge!"

Sword held back to strike, Soul Reaver leaps forward... and simultaneously, thousands of razor-edged, spinning, bat-like metallic constucts swarm from the air behind him, trailing clouds of dark magic  They heave and expand outwards in all directions behind the leaping Soul Reaver, ready to simultaneously eviscerate Abaddon from above, below, and his flanks as the roaring Soul Reaver attacks from the front.

Faidth:
The evil radiating off of the grim creature in front of Faidth was nauseating. It seethed off Abaddon in waves before reaching the form of the Fyrellian, who shuddered with uneasiness.

Still, she knew that she would not have any hope of ever reaching home again if the people she was to trust with her return were to be defeated. Faidth watched as Abaddon discarded his helmet, letting it fall to the ground, only to reveal his grotesque face.

She swept her hands forward and they began to pulse with a dim, glowing, orange light. Heat began to pour from her palms and she focused all of her attention upon the discarded helmet and the armor that Abaddon wore. She could feel many natural elements, though several had been eroded with the powers of chaos he commanded. She even sensed other components... terribly macabre additions that the creature had likely added himself: bones, flesh, blood, and the remnants of fractured souls.

Slowly, Faidth's Atom Transfiguration began to take effect. Shards of plasteel fractured within his armor, forming small flechettes with which Faidth could strike. With a quick wave of her hand, they would begin to bore inwards, towards his unsuspecting flesh.

The helmet, she had special use for. It was cruel, yes... but she was certain that this creature deserved no mercy. A gout of annihilating heat poured from her hands and encompassed the helmet. The metal began to liquify into small beads of melted plasteel. She raised her hands upward, and her pupils were simply gone as the entirety of her eyes were little more than glowing orange orbs.

She directed these molten beads of metal towards every orifice on the creature's face. She began to reform them into minute balls of metal, each laden with small, exceedingly dangerous spurs. If even a few would succeed in entering his body, they would deal a great deal of damage from the inside out.

Danyael:
Abbadon having avoided the brunt of Danyael’s initial attack, the nephilim lord was less than pleased, though all the same unfazed. Projecting his essence to the surface, he walked through the ground as if it were mere steps, his now white cloak billowing in the after winds. The vibrations of the land rippling through the threads of muscle and vein as easily as bloodflow. His black cloaked companion, while still present about the battlefield, was nowhere to be seen, or so it appeared.

His distance from Abbadon was, curiously, further than prior, though his presence seemed spread across the battlements; both closer and farther than the companions and their prey. In one view, he could see the warmaster within a hand’s reach, while in another, he could see the building engagement from afar and back to his present, physical standing. He could feel everywhere and amusingly at place simultaneously, his connection to the world all the more bolstering his standing.

Dipping into the wellspring, and with a vivid shink!, he unsheathed an arrowhead styled longsword from the ether, partially wrapped in a blood red sash that flapped in motions too unnatural for even winds to puppeteer. His frame pulsing with foreign powers to which he was all too familiar, his eyes opened to reveal irises of deep, reflective green, veiled only by the dimness of his trademark style of an upraised hood to partially conceal his visage in flickering shadows. 

He approached from his position so many yards away, a simple forward stance adorning his march as he held the sword diagonally behind him, as if preparing for an overhead slash. His steps were steady, fast and yet appeared miraculously as if he were walking at the same time, all the while not making a single sound. His eyes, beneath the sheen of green, darted in directions so fast and too numerous that they appeared as blurred orbs, spinning without cease. He felt the heat beneath the ground as he felt the air miles above. He felt the vibrations of the companions like he could feel the beat of his own heart. And he felt the vile hoggishness of the chaos warmaster who was far and near at the same time.

Every step he took came in the company of hissing snickering, though the source could not be traced to him. The closer he came, all seemed calm about him, all save for his shadow; which waved and clapped of its own volition. At each turn, when it would sprout to life, one could pick out the distinct apparition of dozens of misty white slits which blinked and batted with their own timing. Another few steps closer and the slits grew mouths and the phantasms became faces frozen in an infinite cackle, bursting from the darkness in the shapes of living shadows number at two dozen strong as the Nocturne Kenshi were once again brought into the living world.

A swift command from his free hand and his minions bolted with such speed that they seemingly vanished and appeared stretching their numbers to spread out behind him, their invisible steps burning a smoking, ashen circle comprised of symbols and calligraphy of a long forgotten language. Another silent command from the nephilim lord sent them back into the ether, visibly having made no attack toward the chaos warmaster.

Onward Danyael marched, sword firmly in hand, ready for a killing blow and the faint semblance of an inner vibration about the blade that was quickly gaining in intensity.

He watched as an old friend rushed in for the kill while a new friend prepared an assembly of fortitude of her own. He watched Soul rush their enemy while he was also aware of this new warrior readying her own arsenal for a full frontal attack. Still on his approach, he lifted the fingers of his free hand to his lips, kissed them and projected his will deep into the grounds below, reaching out to the young warrior physically too far from him. “Take caution.” the voice of his mind reached out to hers while still connected with the waking world.

Letting the tip of his blade kiss the ground, its smooth edges skirted up white embers as it scrapped across the ground. He felt the force building in his legs, moving down from the flesh, through the blood, to the bone and piercing the marrow, slithering from the shins and flushing through the ground where he found the force to kneel low and vault himself into the sky with such speed he appeared to have vanished into the distance, the only proof of his existence preceded by the roaring thunder of a sonic boom.

Fei:
Fei stands at 50 paces from Abbadon but barely an instant in time."It's finally gotten personal... that is exactly what I wanted to hear."  Fei's voice resonates through the air with a sense of content.  With a quick swiping gesture with the Kurusunami, the paired blades burn backwards like cigarettes into Fei's grip and disappearing in wisps of black smoke. 

Abbadon's helmet clatters to the ground revealing the man behind the mask.  Dipping down low with a grounded stance, Fei brings his arms down and around behind him in a sweeping motion, reality rippling and trailing like water around his hands.  Crimson droplets of vitae float along the stream, weightlessly following his hands as he brings them up and around, creating a circular pattern of blood that spins in a wide circle before him like the boundaries of a gateway.

Bringing his hand before his face, he clenches his fist.  The droplets before him form a perfect ring of blood and turn to a polished black glass as well as the space within its borders.  When viewed through, viewable are the creatures of shadow.  The various horrors stop to look  from within begin to approach, seeking freedom.

Plunging his hand through the gateway, the glass wavers and refracts.  Black tendrils uncoil from the other side and dart and lasso, hooking into his companions shadows, linking them to the gateway.  With a vicious pull backwards, the gateway shatters, the shards scattering to the ground.

Blackened flames emanate from the shards like flares, and from the smoke unfurls featureless shadow forms that are strikingly similar to those of Fei's companions.

With a commanding gesture, Fei points at Abbadon and the shadowy dopplegangers howl like banshees in the night before dashing towards him through the air, weapons drawn, their forms stretched and trailing behind them.

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