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A Monster Still [Azrael]
Topic Started: Sat Dec 17, 2011 11:30 pm (244 Views)
Lesk
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Stirberg was a magical city, no doubt. The beautiful snow that fell just outside of its walls which turned into a nice rain inside. Nobody truly lived here if they could not deal with a bit of rain. And then to see some of the inhabitants could truly make one wonder, especially if they set sight upon the hulking figure of a flesh golem, seeming to be dressed not unlike a barbarian. To see this creature was to know fear, to know this creature was to know laughter. Effagee as it was known, a conversion of a name from the letters "F" and "G", which side-by-side had once stood for Flesh Golem. It had become his name when he fought in arena battles against other golems, each as large as he was though his strength proved far more incredible. As Golems went, few held the power that FG did, the strength which matched that of a dragon's. Most people may tihnk of golems as mindless creature, but that was only a half truth. Spell casters of all sorts, of all walks of the magical life, who held the power to summon a creature so mighty as a golem also held with them the ability to let such a thing live. Of course, Effagee's creators had been killed off shortly after creating him, yet such a thing ultimately did not matter. The creature compiled of undead flesh had its own life, figuratively speaking,and proved time and time again to people who feared and hated it that it was too dumb to actually do any sort of malicious harm.

Now Effagee had found his way to this city that was enchanted by magic to always rain, though his enchanted flesh kept him from rotting and making too much of a stink his strength was not lost on the people of the city.On this cold-rain day, nestled in the months of Winter, itself, Effagee lifted a massive crate with ease, that not even the strongmen of the city could pick up. Yet most did not feel intimidated by this fact, speaking to their job of lifting such things, but welcomed him into the group of lifting the things too heavy for even them. His intense strength and stupid mind made him a good creature, despite his past as a captain... a part of his past that lasted ten minutes. Hewas too dumb to be dishonest, too slow to know when to try to lie. It made him a good friend, so thought many of the people that met him, yet there were always those that tried to find ways of killing him. Healing spells hurt, especially greater healing spells, butthey weren't enough to do the trick. They had tried resurrecting him before, but his patchwork flesh allowed for only a bit at a time to truly be brought back, though it would hurt immensely it would only take a short amount of time to die and rot back to the same level as the rest of his flesh.

For his strength and his appearence, he was called the Good Monster. Too stupid to worry about, too clumsy to leave unattended. Something proven by the fact that by lifting the massive crate, he had taken out a chunk of a nearby building which would surely need to be repaired later. Of course, he apologized.
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Sanctus Ignis
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News of an abomination walking the hallowed streets of Striberg had not taken long to reach the old Inquisitor's ears. Azrael had hear all the reports of this disgusting creature, indeed, a flood of angry citizens had petitioned him personally to do something about it. The 'Good Monster', they called it. He sneered at that thought, what a joke. He had heard all about the damage this thing had already done to the glorious city, of the buildings broken and women terrified of the mere stink of it. Those good, God-fearing denizens brave enough to say something had come directly to him; for they knew him to be a man of action. And the time for action was now.

Azrael strode through the streets of Striberg, tattered cloak flowing out behind him the mild breeze. He was dressed in his finest regalia and Malleus Maleficarum, the Hammer of Wytches, hung from his belt. Soon that hammer would taste the undead flesh of yet another horror. Soon. Three acolytes flanked him as he made his imperious way, students of the Holy path, eager to show the Inquisitor their devotion to his cause. each man carried a spear - as instructed by Azrael - and wore only a simple robe. they knew the armor of their faith would be match enough for any attack the unclean could muster.

Finally reaching the corner of the alley they had chosen as their point to launch from, Azreal turned to his men. "Things are very seldom what they seem, my children." He growled," In my experience, they’re usually a damn sight worse. The guilty and the polluted fight. They deny. They struggle. In my lifetime, I have brought down nine true Daemons. None went quietly. Have no misconceptions; this one will not."

He paused, looking at each man in turn, "If our faith in the Gods and our force of arms prove strong, the forces of Evil can be driven back into hell. If we are found wanting, Humanity will fall. To arms, brothers!"

And with that cry he hefted the great hammer Malleus and strode from the alley, ready to confront their foul prey. Though he had been warned what to expect, the sight of the creature still sickened Azreal to his stomach. it was a horrifying amalgamation of decaying flesh, twice the height of a normal man, with disgusting, rippling muscles. He watched agape as it lifted an entire cart.

"Foul Daemon!" He cried, raising his warhammer to the sky, "Back to the Abyss with you!"

They charged.
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Lesk
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Effagee gave no mind to the world about him as he stomped off down the road, things around him shaking just slightly. The first days that he had walked through the streets of Striberg, it had worried most of the people. After all, flesh golems were supposed to be nothing but mindless and hideous abominations to nature, created of necrotic magic and used to destroy things to assert their masters' power-base. Of course, most of these things did apply to Effagee up until the last one. He was indeed mindless, one could crack his skull open and find no brain within it. He was not exactly the best thing to look at, but people gave to him the fact that he didn't smell as bad as they thought he should, which was a good thing. They emphasized how good it was for him to not stink. And he was created by necrotic magic in the creators' hope that he might become a force to take over the world for them. And then one day he had wandered off leaving them to be killed by a mercenary. A shame for them, fortune for him. The last bit of their power went into making him and making him sentient. So that had been his first day of life, however long ago that had been. Then he was a pirate for a while, a gladiator, an entertainer and then he was in Imythess, just sort of wandering from here to there, stomping his way around and not meaning to scare people, though upon first sight they usually did. Striberg was used to a sight such as him, though, and mostly nobody complained except for how clumsy he was, breaking things by accident with his large clumps of mass. People simply put their palms over their faces and sighed.

FG stopped for only a moment, though, when something had called him a foul daemon, saying something about him returning to the abyss before a group charged.

"No, no... You think of Gradzz... He down da street. Me Effagee, me golem..." He would say in all honesty before raising up a mighty leg and slamming it with incredible and rarely matched force into the stone ground, creating a minor tremor which would easily knock most of the acolytes onto the ground, and hopefully their leader as well. Whether or not they actually did didn't matter to him. He would continue forward and down the street, hoping that the people would just either leave him alone or go get themselves killed by Gradzz... He was a demon, a goodly demon who ran a trinkets shop and a nice person to FG, though sometimes a bit mean with his jokes.
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