Chapter 13: The Rise of the forgotten Part 2

Amidst the relentless cacophony of battle, the ground beneath Skarbrand's feet quaked, heralding the arrival of the colossal Warsphinxes. These monstrous constructs, carved in the image of both gods and beasts, bore down upon the daemon with a weight and fury that could shatter mountains.

The Warsphinxes moved with an unnatural grace, their every step a symphony of destruction. Each footfall sent tremors through the earth, a chilling testament to the unnatural power that surged within them. Their lion-like visages, adorned with regal crowns and adorned in symbols of antiquated authority, held a predatory intent that seemed to mock the chaos that Skarbrand embodied.

As the Warsphinxes closed in, their massive stone claws descended upon the daemon with cataclysmic force. Skarbrand, a whirlwind of mindless fury and boundless ferocity, met them head-on. His serrated axe clashed with the monstrous claws, sending sparks and stone splinters flying in every direction. The ground quivered under the booming resonance of their battle.

Each colossal blow unleashed an explosion of chaos. The Warsphinxes, built to withstand even the most formidable adversaries, groaned under the relentless assault. Their stony hides, carved with intricate hieroglyphs and divine inscriptions, chipped and shattered with each impact. It was a brutal, primal confrontation, where raw power clashed with ancient craftsmanship.

Skarbrand, fueled by his chaotic essence and an unrelenting drive for dominance, grappled with one of the Warsphinxes. His massive hands, scarred and calloused from countless battles across realms, dug into its stony flesh. He sought to tear the construct apart, determined to prove that even the most ancient and revered creations of the Tomb Kings could be vanquished by his boundless rage.

With a tremendous surge of strength, Skarbrand pulled with every ounce of his might. The stone and obsidian form of the Warsphinx resisted for a heartbeat, then, with a sickening rending sound, it yielded. The Warsphinx was torn asunder, a statue of mythic power shattered by the relentless daemon.

The victorious bellow that escaped Skarbrand's twisted maw reverberated through the battlefield. Chaos had triumphed over the pinnacle of Nehekharan craftsmanship. The remains of the Warsphinx lay scattered, a monument to the daemon's indomitable fury.

Yet, the Tomb Kings' constructs were not uniform. Some among their ranks bore an even more ominous aspect—the deadly scorpion tail. As thick as a tree trunk, it gleamed malevolently in the desert sun, hinting at the potent venom that coursed through its lethal length. This appendage was a macabre weapon, capable of puncturing armor, stone, and flesh with ease, delivering a toxin that could incapacitate any unfortunate enough to be struck.

One such Warsphinx, distinguished by the terrifying scorpion tail that arched high above its back, advanced towards Skarbrand with menacing intent. The daemon, his chaotic aura crackling with anticipation, met the construct without hesitation.

With lightning speed, the Warsphinx's tail struck, a deadly arc of stone and venom. Skarbrand's instincts kicked in. He twisted his monstrous frame, narrowly avoiding the deadly strike, and the venomous stinger plunged into the unforgiving earth, hissing as it consumed the sand.

Seizing this opening, Skarbrand lunged forward, his jagged axe aimed at the Warsphinx's stony visage. The blade cleaved through the air with a sinister swiftness, and as it connected with the construct's sculpted head, stone shattered and splinters cascaded around them.

The Warsphinx recoiled, disoriented by the chaotic force that had laid waste to its imposing form. Skarbrand saw his opportunity, the fervour of battle now fully consuming him. His hands, like iron talons, grasped the Warsphinx's head, and with a guttural roar, he exerted his unrelenting power.

Stone yielded to the daemon's strength. A grating, soul-rending sound filled the air as the Warsphinx's visage was wrenched free from its colossal body. In an eruption of stone and debris, the head fell to the ground, where it lay as a shattered relic of ancient terror.

But Skarbrand's triumph was short-lived. The construct, undeterred by the loss of its head, unleashed a wave of roaring flames from within its now-exposed neck. Fiery tongues licked at the daemon, who staggered back, bellowing in pain.

The battlefield was bathed in an infernal light as the inner fire within the Warsphinx raged. Its roar of defiance echoed through the desert as it advanced, determined to end the torment of the chaotic intruder. With each step, it spat forth searing fire that surged towards Skarbrand, threatening to consume him in an all-consuming blaze as it fell.

Suddenly, from the blinding glint of the scorching desert horizon, a massive Necrosphinx emerged. Its immense, angular form towered over the battlefield, casting a colossal shadow that seemed to merge with the encroaching darkness of the skirmish below. This colossal creature, more monument than a beast, was carved from blocks of ancient stone and forged in the sacred image of Nehekhara's most feared mythical creatures.

The Necrosphinx's body was a powerful blend of man and lion, with intricate hieroglyphs etched across its chest, recounting tales of ancient battles and the great kings of old. Its broad wings, reminiscent of a majestic bird of prey, spanned the skies, casting ripples of sand and wind as they beat. These wings were not just ornate; they carried an eerie sense of purpose, the glinting edges hinting at the sharpness and the fatal blows they could deliver.

The head of the beast was that of a regal, war-worn pharaoh. Cold, lifeless eyes, made from gleaming gemstones, seemed to pierce the very souls of those it gazed upon. Its elongated, gold-tipped beard symbolized the immense age and wisdom of the creature, while the dual serpentine crowns it bore marked its divine association with both the Upper and Lower realms of ancient Nehekhara.

The most awe-inspiring feature, however, was the Necrosphinx's gargantuan, dual-bladed scythe-like arms. These arms, forged from a mysterious dark metal and inscribed with deadly curses, were said to be capable of slicing through the very fabric of reality. Each swing, each movement of these formidable appendages, carried with it the wrath of eons.

The daemon tightened his grip on his axe, its blade still smouldering from the previous clashes. The dark void in his eyes met the gleaming gemstone gaze of the Necrosphinx. For a brief moment, time seemed to slow, and all that existed were these two titans, each a champion of their respective realms, destined to clash in a battle that would echo through eternity.

With a roar that shook the heavens, Skarbrand lunged forward. His initial strike aimed to cleave the Necrosphinx at its midsection. However, the beast, despite its monumental size, moved with a grace and agility that belied its stature. With a swift beat of its wings, the Necrosphinx rose just above Skarbrand's strike, causing him to cleave through nothing but air and sand.

As the daemon regained his stance, the massive scythe arm of the Necrosphinx swung down in a deadly arc. Skarbrand, calling upon his raw, chaotic might, met the blow head-on with his axe. The impact was cataclysmic, sending shockwaves that distorted the very air around them. The desert sands were thrown into turmoil, creating blinding sandstorms in the vicinity.

From within this swirling tempest of sand and power, the two behemoths continued their dance of death. Skarbrand, ever the embodiment of rage and fury, slashed and hacked with unmatched brutality. Each strike, each swing of his axe, aimed to rend stone and shatter the essence of the creature before him.

The Necrosphinx, on the other hand, was the embodiment of ancient strategy and finesse. It dodged and countered, using its dual scythe-arms with expert precision. With every deflection, it aimed to find an opening, a chink in the daemon's defences. Its wings edged like blades, occasionally swooped down in swift, slicing arcs, each time forcing Skarbrand to evade or parry lest he is cleaved.

In one heart-stopping moment, Skarbrand's axe managed to find its mark, biting deep into the stone flesh of the Necrosphinx's leg. The beast howled in a sound that was both mournful and enraged. But the victory was short-lived. Using its injured leg as a pivot, the Necrosphinx brought its other scythe arm around in a sweeping blow that Skarbrand barely managed to dodge.

As the battle raged on, the surrounding skeletal warriors and constructs, sensing the peril of their mighty champion, converged on Skarbrand, hoping to overwhelm him. But the daemon's infernal energies were insatiable. With a thunderous roar, he released a shockwave of chaotic power, pushing back the encroaching forces, buying him precious moments to continue his duel with the Necrosphinx.

The climax of their confrontation was both brutal and poetic. As the Necrosphinx aimed one final, desperate blow with its scythe arm, Skarbrand caught it with his axe. Using all his strength, he began to twist and turn, aiming to wrench the limb from the construct. The Necrosphinx resisted, its entire form vibrating with the struggle.

Finally, with a sound like mountains cracking, Skarbrand tore the scythe arm free. But he was not done. In a final act of violent dominance, he drove the dismembered limb through the heart of the Necrosphinx, pinning it to the desert below.

As the dust settled, Skarbrand stood triumphant, the remnants of the mighty Necrosphinx scattered around him. 

Emerging from the very earth that bore the weight of ancient dynasties, the Necrolith Colossus asserted its domineering presence. Its every step was a ballet of controlled power, and with it, the sands quaked as though the very desert protested its march. Skarbrand, his body marked by the wounds of prior confrontations, braced himself, but even he couldn't predict the trials that lay ahead.

The ground beneath Skarbrand's hooves betrayed him, as Tomb Swarms surged upwards. These weren't just mindless creatures; they were the desert's fury manifest. Scarabs, with their iridescent shells reflecting the sun's cruel light, sought out the gaps in Skarbrand's armor, while venomous scorpions targeted his vulnerable joints. The constant assault was not only painful but dizzyingly distracting. They sought to overwhelm him through sheer volume, turning his size and strength into a disadvantage.

The Necrolith Colossus, seizing the momentary distraction, thrust its gargantuan fist forward, smashing into Skarbrand with a force that might have felled mountains. The world became a whirl of sand and sky as Skarbrand was hurled across the battlefield, his body carving a trench through the dunes.

But before he could recover, the air grew cold with the presence of the Necropolis Knights. Their serpentine steeds, relics of a bygone era, hissed as they closed in. One particularly audacious knight thrust forward, its serpent sinking its fangs deep, attempting to drain the very essence of chaos from Skarbrand.

A primal rage engulfed Skarbrand. Grasping the knight's skeletal form, he wrenched it free from its mount, shattering it in a maelstrom of bone and dust. His fingers then plunged into the serpent's hollow eye sockets, extracting its very life force and casting the lifeless form aside.

But the desert was relentless. The Ushabti, standing tall and regal, advanced. Carved from jade and imbued with the power of ancient deities, they moved with an uncanny grace. One lunged, its gargantuan weapon cutting through the air, aiming for Skarbrand's heart. The daemon parried in the nick of time, but the force nearly knocked his weapon from his grasp.

Amidst the chaos, the Hierotitan, a sentinel of sacred power, loomed. Channelling the spiritual might of the Nehekharan pantheon, it released arcs of holy energy. Skarbrand, already grappling with the Ushabti, was engulfed. Each beam felt like the weight of ages, burning away at his essence.

In a burst of raw power, Skarbrand tore through the Ushabti, turning its divine energy back upon it, culminating in a brilliant explosion that bathed the desert in a ghastly light.

Yet, as one threat was vanquished, another rose. The Colossus, unyielding and determined, lunged, aiming to crush Skarbrand. Rolling aside, the daemon narrowly avoided being flattened, but this maneuver exposed him to the Knights once more.

As a blade found its mark, impaling him, Skarbrand roared, a sound echoing of both pain and fury. Grabbing the blade, and with it its wielder, he unleashed a brutal counter, snapping the knight in half and using the remains as a barrier against subsequent Hierotitan strikes.

The sun's descent only heightened the battle's intensity. Skarbrand, though seemingly outnumbered, stood defiant. Each scar, each fresh wound, only fanned the flames of his indomitable rage.

Amidst the sprawling desert, an unyielding theatre of war took shape. Skarbrand, a daemon born from the very essence of rage, moved like a devastating storm. Every footfall was a drumbeat, every swing a tempestuous gust. The hot sands, which had absorbed countless tales of treachery and spilled blood, trembled under the sheer intensity of his ferocity. Legends would be born this day, tales that would send shivers down the spine of even the bravest warriors.

The Necrolith Colossus, an ancient marvel of stone and magic, marched forward. Its every stone and gear seemed to creak and groan, revealing the strain of the battle. Without hesitation, Skarbrand, his eyes blazing with malevolent intent, launched himself towards it. The collision was earth-shattering. His axe, an extension of his fury, bit deep into the construct's leg, chipping away the stone and disrupting the intricate arcane circuits within. For a fleeting moment, the colossus wobbled, threatening to topple.

However, it wasn't to be so easily defeated. Powered by the ageless magic of the Nehekharan sorcerers, the Colossus retaliated. Its arm, heavy and unyielding, descended with a force that threatened to obliterate everything in its path. Skarbrand narrowly evaded, the wind from the blow ruffling his charred wings, but the ground where he once stood bore the mark of the devastating impact, now a deep, smouldering crater.

But Skarbrand's trials were far from over. Like deadly shadows moving over the dunes, the Necropolis Knights slithered forth. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. One particular knight, astride a skeletal serpent, its lance pulsating with ethereal blue energy, aimed at the daemon's heart. Skarbrand, with reflexes that belied his massive form, sidestepped the deadly thrust. With a motion that was both graceful and brutal, he snatched the knight's outstretched arm, wrenching it from its socket. And in a display of ruthless efficiency, he skewered the hapless knight with its own dismembered limb, the force of the impalement anchoring the skeletal rider to the sand below.

Yet, the desert, ever treacherous, had more horrors to unleash. Tomb Swarms, creatures birthed from nightmares, converged on him. The ravenous scarabs clung tenaciously, their tiny mandibles seeking the spaces between his armoured plates, their intent clear – to devour the very essence that animated him. But Skarbrand was not one to be overwhelmed. Channelling his rage into a cyclonic force around him, he sent the scarabs spiralling away, their diminutive forms disappearing amidst the swirling sands.

But the Ushabti, the mighty guardians of Nehekhara's past, were undeterred. One, in particular, with a bow carved from ancient luminescent wood, aimed. The arrow, imbued with the spirits of ancient archers, found its mark, piercing Skarbrand's flesh and burrowing deep. The pain was searing, but Skarbrand's response was swift. Grasping the arrow's shaft, he wrenched it free and, channelling his rage into his throw, sent it hurtling back. It struck the Ushabti, embedding itself deep into its core. The guardian staggered, the spirits within it shrieking in torment as the ancient magic binding it together began to unravel.

Amid the relentless carnage, the Hierotitan, a monument to Nehekhara's divine majesty, channelled its most formidable sorcery. Towering over the battlefield, it began to perform an ancient ritual. Its hands danced in the air, weaving arcane symbols that seemed to pulsate and twist the very fabric of reality. The sands beneath responded, swirling and coalescing, reflecting the energies that the Hierotitan was summoning.

From the intricate tips of its outstretched fingers, brilliant golden tendrils of energy emerged, reaching hungrily for Skarbrand. As they connected with his monstrous form, they seared and sizzled, burning deep welts into his crimson flesh. These weren't just magical bindings; they pulsed with the wrath of gods long past, each thread acting as a conduit for divine retribution, attempting to tear him asunder.

Skarbrand roared, the pain intensifying as the Hierotitan poured more of its holy energy into the bindings. In his rage-addled mind, a singular thought formed - break free or be undone. Pushing against the relentless pain, he lunged at the Hierotitan. With unparalleled force, he grasped the massive creature's arms, the bones cracking and snapping under his vice-like grip. As the Hierotitan reeled, it made a last-ditch attempt to subdue its adversary, its eyes glowing intensely, firing a concentrated beam of the same divine magic.

But Skarbrand was relentless. Using the Hierotitan's broken arms as leverage, he drove the sharp, splintered bone into the creature's gaping jaw, causing it to release a muffled cry of agony. In a single, fluid motion, he twisted its torso at a grotesque angle, the spine breaking with a sound that echoed across the dunes. And then, with a brutality that would become a legend, he reached in, pulling out the Hierotitan's spine and skull. The once mighty guardian of Nehekhara's sacred rites now lay in ruins, its majestic form reduced to a twisted, broken remnant.

Exhausted from the relentless onslaught he had faced, Skarbrand, the embodiment of raw, primal fury, found himself seeking respite atop the remnants of the Hierotitan. The gemstone, now clutched in his bloodied hand, pulsed with an enigmatic energy. Curiosity overcame his weariness, and he pressed the gem to his chest. As the world around him faded, he found himself enveloped by a different kind of darkness - one that was cool, intimate, and strangely familiar.

He was in a house. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant hum of a refrigerator. The walls, stripped of any decoration, bore the weight of memories long forgotten. Each creaking floorboard told tales of days gone by. The dim light filtering through the old, grimy windows hinted at a world that seemed miles away from the carnage he had just faced.

Amidst this disarming stillness, a figure emerged. It was him. But not the Skarbrand he had come to know. This version was... human. Standing in front of a worn-out refrigerator, the faint light revealed a man in his early thirties, with messy jet-black hair, sharp aquiline features, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand unsung songs. His face, while ruggedly handsome, wore the scars of countless battles — not of the physical kind, but battles of the soul.

There was an uncanny calm about this human form. A white tank top clung to his muscular torso, and faded jeans covered his legs. On his feet were old boots, battered and beaten from wear. His knuckles, stained with fresh blood, hinted at a recent altercation. But amidst this scene of quiet contemplation, the act that followed was both jarring and strangely poignant.

Opening the fridge door, the pale light cast him in an almost ethereal glow. He reached inside, pulling out a bottle of milk. Unscrewing the cap, he took a long, deliberate sip. The world seemed to pause at that moment. The act was so simple, yet filled with layers of meaning. The milk trailed down his lips, a few droplets escaping, creating a stark contrast against the blood on his knuckles. He closed his eyes, relishing the coolness of the drink, the sensation it brought, the fleeting moment of peace it provided.

The smile that followed was enigmatic — filled with both melancholy and mischief. It was a smile that spoke of days gone by, of innocence lost, of a yearning for something intangible. As he continued to drink, the weight of his past became palpable, each gulp a testament to the burdens he bore, the battles he had faced, and the choices he had made.

For Skarbrand, watching this spectral memory unfold, was a stark revelation. Here, in this unassuming kitchen, amidst the cold hum of the refrigerator, lay the essence of his past life — life before the rage, before the chaos, before he became the instrument of wrath. The juxtaposition was jarring, yet deeply illuminating.

As the vision began to fade, and the familiar sands of Nehekhara started to re-emerge, Skarbrand found himself clutching the gemstone tighter. The weight of the revelation pressed upon him. For in that fleeting moment, he had glimpsed a side of himself he had long forgotten.

Skarbrand, the daemonic embodiment of rage, found himself at the cusp of an immense transformation. The visions that had haunted his existence, twisting his rage into an ever-darkening madness, had finally subsided. As the tumultuous energy in the southern reaches of the Southlands beckoned him, he hesitated. The turmoil that had been a ceaseless companion now lay dormant, held at bay by this strange allure.

The relentless, maddening visions that had plagued Skarbrand's existence had been like the unrelenting lashings of a storm. They had become a turbulent sea of anger and chaos, an unceasing tempest that had driven him to the brink of madness and beyond. For countless eons, he had been a creature of ceaseless rage, an uncontrollable maelstrom of fury given form. But now, at this moment, that storm was quelled, replaced by an eerie calm that enveloped him.

As Skarbrand stood upon the precipice of the unknown, his eyes, like molten rubies, scanned the alien landscape that stretched before him. It was a dramatic departure from the harsh and unforgiving desert that had been his home for millennia. The Southlands was a land of enigmatic contrasts, and he could feel the very essence of the realm shifting around him.

His senses tingled with the unfamiliar. Gone was the arid, choking breath of the desert. Instead, the air grew heavy with humidity, wrapping around him like a warm, moist blanket. The once-dry sands gave way to a profusion of life. Where once there had been only desolation, now, the land teemed with vibrant, verdant jungles.

Massive trees, ancient sentinels of the land, reached for the heavens with sprawling branches, their trunks resembling colossal serpents winding their way through the earth. Their canopies formed a vast, emerald sea, casting dappled shadows upon the riotous undergrowth beneath. As Skarbrand observed, it was as if nature itself was rebelling against the desolation he had known, flourishing with a primal determination.

It was the colours that seized his attention most profoundly. Skarbrand's fiery eyes, typically aflame with his inner turmoil, were drawn to the cacophonous array of hues that danced before him. Exotic birds, creatures of impossible splendour, filled the air with their vibrant plumage. They soared and darted among the towering branches, each wingbeat painting vivid streaks of colour across the azure canvas of the sky. Their songs filled the air with a symphony of life, a stark contrast to the silence of the desert that had been his solitary companion.

As Skarbrand descended further into this realm of splendour, the transition from the arid desert to the fertile jungle was abrupt, yet oddly seamless. The undulating dunes, those unforgiving waves that had both shaped and tormented his existence, gave way to rolling hills of rich, dark soil. Here, the earth was not barren but fertile, not cracked and parched but covered in lush, dew-kissed flora.

Skarbrand's colossal form moved with an unsettling grace through this new landscape. He crushed flowers underfoot, leaving a trail of petals and fragrant aromas in his wake. The vibrant, multicoloured blossoms stretched toward the dappled sunlight, their petals shimmering with iridescence. The leaves of strange, exotic plants glistened with a dew that clung to the air. All around, the jungle seemed to pulse with life, as if the very heartbeat of the earth had quickened in his presence.

He had crossed a threshold, transcending the desolation of the northern desert and stepping into a realm of thriving vitality. But something else drew him further, a magnetic force that resonated with the chaos he embodied. It was not the serenity of this place that held his attention, for he was not a creature of peace. It was the allure of power, the promise of a challenge like no other, that tugged at the fringes of his consciousness. It was the enigmatic presence of another, an entity known as Kroq-Gar.

In the heart of The Golden Pass, where the emerald jungle gave way to enigmatic power, legends whispered of Kroq-Gar, the last of the mighty Saurus Oldbloods. He was a warrior of immense power, a living relic of an age long past, and a revered servant of the Old Ones themselves. Kroq-Gar, the Saurus Lord, lay dormant within this sacred place, his very essence bound to it by the enigmatic rites of the Lizardmen and the unfathomable influence of the Old Ones.

The legends said that Kroq-Gar's connection to the land was profound. He was a guardian of The Golden Pass, entrusted with the protection of its mysteries and the secrets held within its very soil. He was said to be a force of nature, a warrior without equal in the Southlands, and the presence of Skarbrand, the daemon of unbridled rage, had not gone unnoticed.

As Skarbrand moved deeper into The Golden Pass, he could not ignore the potent energies that surrounded him. It was as though the land itself recognized the imminent clash of titans. The very air was charged with anticipation, and the sacred ground vibrated with an undeniable resonance.

The lush jungles, the golden tower, and the sacred city of Teotiqua were all pieces of a greater puzzle, a riddle that begged for his understanding. Skarbrand could feel the anticipation building, his fury stirring once more in response to the primal energies that surrounded him.