06-03-2018, 07:43 AM
In the quest to hunt down and destroy an infernal, castle-sized monster, the last thing one expected was to be ambushed by a cadre of cultists and their demonic allies.
Regrettably, the crusade to re-extinguish the Tarrasque had led the group of barely amenable rivals into a tar- and demon-filled trap. Now, the battle had been joined by one of Darkshire’s newest boogeymen. Although they had yet to be acquainted, the sorcerer recognized the prime from descriptions, images, and other various documents filed in the aftermath of the attack on the city. While there had certainly been other primes throwing themselves at the walls and basements of Darkshire, Illidan Stormrage had been the ringleader. The fact that the blindfolded warrior wrenched demons from the earth did not favors to his image.
That would have to wait until later, because at the moment, the situation demanded that Shang place his focus elsewhere.
With his teeth bared, the sorcerer twisted his lithe frame of avoid the thrusting sword of a hooded cultist. Without skipping a beat, the shoved his own palms forward and hurtled a screaming, skull-shaped orb of fire dead center into his would-be assailant’s chest. The burst of fire and concussive force threw the fanatic to the ground, and before they could shake away the cobwebs, there was a foot of steel through their chest.
“Y-you will feed its rage!” The dying human wailed before a twist of the blade finished its futile existence.
“Feed the dirt,” Shang muttered as he wrenched the jian free from the carcass and lifted his eyes to see more entertainment closing in around him. Glancing away for a moment, the sorcerer spotted the Spartan twenty paces away and dealing with a trio of unhooded drow. Elsewhere, Strazio Rockwell sidestepped an errant swing and replied by punching a wave of crackling white energy through the chest of cultist who was alive one second and entirely deceased the next.
Never one to feel upstaged, Shang Tsung cracked his neck and rushed his approaching foes. They fell back just as soon as he broke into a sprint, and even though he knew there was a reason, he couldn’t bring himself to a stop before the ground beneath his heels buckled. Something obscene slipped his lips as the Defender of Darkshire twisted and launched himself back as hard as his legs would let him. He landed awkwardly on an upturned sheet of rock and felt the air knocked from his lungs.
Before he had a chance to regain his composure, a clawed hand latched against his right ankle. Rather than pull him into the abyss of the Primordial Scar, the demon dragged a wide-eyed Shang Tsung up into the air.
Looking down at the ground as it slipped away, the sorcerer reached out toward the blade that now rested five feet beneath his outstretched fingers. The handle jiggled on the despoiled soil, but before it could skitter up off the ground and return to its master, the winged demon let out a terrible screech. Shang craned his neck and saw the spear buried through the monstrosity’s chest. With acrid blood bubbling from the fatal wound, the creature’s wings went slack, and it dropped to the ground with its sorcerous cargo.
Shang grimaced as he crashed back to earth, but the moment he landed, he quickly threw himself hard to the left to avoid the carcass of the winged demon. Once he was safe from being crushed beneath a few hundred pounds of fel monster, the sorcerer willed his sword back into his hand and glanced over at his sneering companion.
The Spartan was surrounded by three broken corpses. More likely than not, he had tried to insult their lack of musculature before disemboweling them. “You still need to work off that rust, Sorcerer?” The ancient warrior laughed before he registered the scowl on his ally’s visage. “Is that the salt you taste?” Without a response, Shang took a pair of steps forward and hurtled his sword at Atelos.
Yelping despite himself, the Spartan tensed as the blade rushed passed the side of his head and struck something soft and unmanly a few paces behind him. Twisting his neck, Atelos watched as the cultist—jian half-buried through his neck—let out a few gurgling rasps before collapsing into a robed heap. When the Grecian returned his eyes to his friend, he saw that now it was the sorcerer who wore the sneer.
“I knew he was there!” Atelos shouted.
Regrettably, the crusade to re-extinguish the Tarrasque had led the group of barely amenable rivals into a tar- and demon-filled trap. Now, the battle had been joined by one of Darkshire’s newest boogeymen. Although they had yet to be acquainted, the sorcerer recognized the prime from descriptions, images, and other various documents filed in the aftermath of the attack on the city. While there had certainly been other primes throwing themselves at the walls and basements of Darkshire, Illidan Stormrage had been the ringleader. The fact that the blindfolded warrior wrenched demons from the earth did not favors to his image.
That would have to wait until later, because at the moment, the situation demanded that Shang place his focus elsewhere.
With his teeth bared, the sorcerer twisted his lithe frame of avoid the thrusting sword of a hooded cultist. Without skipping a beat, the shoved his own palms forward and hurtled a screaming, skull-shaped orb of fire dead center into his would-be assailant’s chest. The burst of fire and concussive force threw the fanatic to the ground, and before they could shake away the cobwebs, there was a foot of steel through their chest.
“Y-you will feed its rage!” The dying human wailed before a twist of the blade finished its futile existence.
“Feed the dirt,” Shang muttered as he wrenched the jian free from the carcass and lifted his eyes to see more entertainment closing in around him. Glancing away for a moment, the sorcerer spotted the Spartan twenty paces away and dealing with a trio of unhooded drow. Elsewhere, Strazio Rockwell sidestepped an errant swing and replied by punching a wave of crackling white energy through the chest of cultist who was alive one second and entirely deceased the next.
Never one to feel upstaged, Shang Tsung cracked his neck and rushed his approaching foes. They fell back just as soon as he broke into a sprint, and even though he knew there was a reason, he couldn’t bring himself to a stop before the ground beneath his heels buckled. Something obscene slipped his lips as the Defender of Darkshire twisted and launched himself back as hard as his legs would let him. He landed awkwardly on an upturned sheet of rock and felt the air knocked from his lungs.
Before he had a chance to regain his composure, a clawed hand latched against his right ankle. Rather than pull him into the abyss of the Primordial Scar, the demon dragged a wide-eyed Shang Tsung up into the air.
Looking down at the ground as it slipped away, the sorcerer reached out toward the blade that now rested five feet beneath his outstretched fingers. The handle jiggled on the despoiled soil, but before it could skitter up off the ground and return to its master, the winged demon let out a terrible screech. Shang craned his neck and saw the spear buried through the monstrosity’s chest. With acrid blood bubbling from the fatal wound, the creature’s wings went slack, and it dropped to the ground with its sorcerous cargo.
Shang grimaced as he crashed back to earth, but the moment he landed, he quickly threw himself hard to the left to avoid the carcass of the winged demon. Once he was safe from being crushed beneath a few hundred pounds of fel monster, the sorcerer willed his sword back into his hand and glanced over at his sneering companion.
The Spartan was surrounded by three broken corpses. More likely than not, he had tried to insult their lack of musculature before disemboweling them. “You still need to work off that rust, Sorcerer?” The ancient warrior laughed before he registered the scowl on his ally’s visage. “Is that the salt you taste?” Without a response, Shang took a pair of steps forward and hurtled his sword at Atelos.
Yelping despite himself, the Spartan tensed as the blade rushed passed the side of his head and struck something soft and unmanly a few paces behind him. Twisting his neck, Atelos watched as the cultist—jian half-buried through his neck—let out a few gurgling rasps before collapsing into a robed heap. When the Grecian returned his eyes to his friend, he saw that now it was the sorcerer who wore the sneer.
“I knew he was there!” Atelos shouted.
![[Image: Shang.jpg]](http://www.omniverse-rpg.com/images/Shang.jpg)