@"Bolt"
Aurelia was at wit's end.
Her church, though admittedly composed of mainly nothing but brick, illusion, and stone, was still the only testament to the holy war-father that she had, other than the empty grave by the northern coast. And it had burned down by the hands of that demon from Gomorrah. War was nigh; sin had to be purged, and speech was no longer the way of achieving that. It was time for a crusade, the likes of which had not been seen since the great Trathiran war centuries ago in a realm long-gone.
But first, she had to ready her equipment. There were two things that were damaged in the fire, and the damage they sustained confirmed that the fire was no mere mortal blaze, but the work of something unholy, and something strong.
She walked through the streets of Manta Carlos with a massive coffin on her back, adorned with verses and songs engraved onto its black wood in tiny, scarlet lettering. Within was her armor - a suit of full ebony plate, with pauldrons extending from the shoulders and with several metal thorns protruding outward from them; a similar suit of simple but durable chain mail colored silver, and a deep crimson robe meant to be in between the chain and the plate. All of those were in varying degrees of damage, with the plate in the most trouble. It lay shattered into dozens of fragments, complete, but incoherent.
Her concern lay with her sword, however - or actually, in the pair of blades, as the sword was made of two
Aurelia was at wit's end.
Her church, though admittedly composed of mainly nothing but brick, illusion, and stone, was still the only testament to the holy war-father that she had, other than the empty grave by the northern coast. And it had burned down by the hands of that demon from Gomorrah. War was nigh; sin had to be purged, and speech was no longer the way of achieving that. It was time for a crusade, the likes of which had not been seen since the great Trathiran war centuries ago in a realm long-gone.
But first, she had to ready her equipment. There were two things that were damaged in the fire, and the damage they sustained confirmed that the fire was no mere mortal blaze, but the work of something unholy, and something strong.
She walked through the streets of Manta Carlos with a massive coffin on her back, adorned with verses and songs engraved onto its black wood in tiny, scarlet lettering. Within was her armor - a suit of full ebony plate, with pauldrons extending from the shoulders and with several metal thorns protruding outward from them; a similar suit of simple but durable chain mail colored silver, and a deep crimson robe meant to be in between the chain and the plate. All of those were in varying degrees of damage, with the plate in the most trouble. It lay shattered into dozens of fragments, complete, but incoherent.
Her concern lay with her sword, however - or actually, in the pair of blades, as the sword was made of two