Information

Shield

The shield is comprised of thirty magical crystal pylons submerged eighty feet into the ground through solid bedrock, and standing one-hundred-seventy feet above the ground. They make a large force bubble that encloses as a dome over the entire base to defend from air attacks as well as siege bombardment. It also encloses under the ground, though because it is submerged it is half as strong beyond the eighty feet submergence depth. Eight pylons are specially imbued with an enchantment to scan a being’s mind and body, verifying their identification.

It then scans the body and memorizes that specific genetic structure so that if someone gets the idea to magically hide themselves inside the body of a member, or if that person gets killed then brought back by an evil Lich and sent back to the base, the pylons would stop them then magically and alert Deimos. This allows four entrances into the base: north, south, east, and west. All the other pylons are always on, no matter what. These pylons can be identified because they are red while the rest of the pylons are blue.

The field itself is half force, half death. Try to walk through the field and it will push you away; in fact, running the line of the pylons the field is pretty much impregnable, the actual pushing force on one’s body is merely a warning system to deter individuals from the field. If you persist and force your way through the field, you will be struck with a massive bolt of magical lightning that, aside from causing heavy amounts of damage, will send you back outside of the perimeter. Say you somehow find a way to force your way through, the field will then cause you to burst into ethereal flames that won't go out... ever. The flames get their power from the same place the pylons do, and that power source is a well-guarded secret placed in a very secret location.

At this points you’re probably thinking, ‘Does air and water get through?” Nope; please, give me some more credit. The pylons themselves actually act as giant filters that can siphon air into and out of the bubble like a giant two-way sponge. This makes it so that any magical being that gets the idea to turn themselves into a cloud or wisp of wind can’t just blow their enchanted asses into the base. The pylons naturally resist and repel anything magical that tries to move through their filter system or the field.

© R.A. aka Maddox

(This field was originally an idea of a friend of mine for a different base that I’ve just moved to suit my purposes.)

Undead Army

It was all but a fact of life that ritualistic magic was easily thousands of times more potent than free-form magic. But the children of today, so infatuated by flashing lights, howling winds, and instant gratification have lost themselves in the throes of battle-magic, of act and react, and forgotten the roots of their most powerful arcane. Naturally, it made sense not to use rituals in the heat of combat; they were too delicate, as fragile as a glass rose, and took up far too much time to complete.

But not for this battle; this was not hand against hand and sword against sword, this was Deimos’ machinations against that of an entire nation’s, and he knew he would always come out on top. With a lackadaisical kind of urgency, as if he knew that this was an important task and yet could not be bothered to hurry, a pure obsidian staff, seeming almost made of charcoal, was staked into the ground. His rucksack was slung over his shoulders, a leather-bound book tucked neatly under his arm, and Deimos walked away; hundreds of gravestones surrounded him, just like they surrounded the various other staffs Deimos had planted in cemeteries across the nation, and he did not stop walking until he was a good distance from this cemetery.

The Grimoire was cracked, its leather-bound spine creaking so ominously as to sound like the hundreds of thousands of souls it has tortured throughout its lifetime, and Deimos held this hefty book in one hand, as if it were not weighed down by irrevocable sin. His eyes scanned the pages momentarily, grasping the concepts of the archaic language in his mind before he dared utter its syllables, as he knew that a single mispronounced letter could spell ruin for all his plots.

Thus began the chants. Those words, the instance that they left Deimos’ lips, took up a life of their own; they flitted here and there, crashed against each other, ebbed and flowed reaching the skies and the clouds before swirling deep underground. They were nondescript, seeming to hold no manner of structure or form, but they held such power…such undeniable power. The staff, all of the selfsame staves to be found throughout the land, began to glow with a lack of light; darker and darker, they were swept into a desolate void of color, until they were darker than even the deepest midnight.

Deimos continued to chant, drooling necromantic ichor from the corners of his lips, and the aura of darkness surged into the ground, lancing through every grave like lightning split into thousands of pieces and attracted to a number of rods. In the most twisted, awkward, sense of the phrase, hundreds upon hundreds of corpses took a breath of life; the ground screamed in pain as hands broke through the crust of dirt and shot to reach for the skies themselves.

Deimos shut the book, a thunderclap resounded, and they were all gone; Deimos, the staff, the book, the bodies. All taken to the front lines of the island, where his army of undead would serve him best.

The sleep he was in had been like none other; he slept not only with the idea of resting, but with the undying thirst for it as well. For a long time, he was nothing more than a withering log, unmoving and completely lifeless, but during one single moment, all of his consciousness flooded back in. That was when Artist’s eyes opened gently, peacefully, revealing to him the room that had been reserved for him at the Hyper Blitz manor. If it hadn’t been for this place, he wouldn’t still be alive.

“They could have changed my clothes,” he whispered to himself as he cast his gaze upon his body, which was still wrapped in the same garments as it had been when he fought the sky. Torn and burned pieces alike hung about his body; his bed was littered with flakes of cloth, and he shook his head when he realized that his bed was going to need a change of sheets. “I’m grateful regardless. I’ll take care of the rest.”

When he pushed himself to sit up, he felt a peculiar, pained sensation all throughout the surface of his skin. It was as though it was toasted; it was like a severe sunburn that roared angrily whenever he moved, causing him the most irritating pain. With that in mind, he moved anyway, gaze coincidentally finding a piece of paper on his night stand. “You owe me something useful,” it read. Artist’s lips widened into an amused smile.

Hours had gone by before he ever emerged from the front door; he was clad in a new business suit, and his presence was lit with a flame of intention. Artist’s mind was rippling with ideas, and as soon as his mind had focused on one of them, he began to move towards the front yard. When he found his place he stopped, eventually bringing out a bright contraption from the confines of his pocket. For ten minutes exactly, he studied the light that it was emitting, and right thereafter, he put it away and prepared himself.

Both arms rose, fingers reaching as far as they could into the sky, and his eyelids closed down softly over his gaze, which had once been aligned with the clouds above. For the longest time, nothing extravagant occurred; nothing that could outdo the passing breezes that caused his brown hair and neat clothing to flicker manifested.

What was going on deep inside him, however, was an entirely different story. An inner strength boiled, and it built up within his presence and grew into something that was seemingly devoid of rule. It was the polar opposite to the serenity that surrounded him. Artist’s mind, now entirely relaxed and focused on the task at hand, sculpted what was to come from the depths of his body. An extravagant eruption occurred; if any were there to witness the scene, they'd realize that it was a wonder how a blast so vehement had managed to remain so quiescent, and so gentle on the things that surrounded it.

This puissance permeated the area under the manor itself, and one hundred yards of the land that surrounded was touched as well. A green wave traversed the ground as though it was a newborn sea, and as quickly and as gently as it had come and been, it simply disappeared, causing nothing more than an exiguous rumble that could be felt throughout the estate. It was done.

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