Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead-Chapter 410 First Clash

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Whistling through the air, launched with dire precision and power, splitting the air air and winds, a javelin exploded into a cloud shrapnel and splinters, striking a hole right through the side of the halberd wielding undead knight, shielding himself, the southern knight glanced back, Aramap still in position, his right arm held forth, the greenish decorations upon his great helm shimmered under the sunshine, the white cloak pulled upward as the first knight leapt from the very top of the ramparts, a quiver of javelins on his back, a great spear held in hand.

The south's second in command reached for another javelin, the knights and soldiers on the battlefield feeling a clear wave of strength washing over them, motivation coursing through their veins, inspiring each and every one of them to fight even harder.

Aramap stopped, his gaze landing on Ourlst, pushing on the pommel of his greatsword, embedding it alongside the sheath into the ground, reaching with his left hand, sliding the blade out of its scabbard, as dark as the armour he wore, bringing it in front of his helm, the left hand bent both knees, and leapt.

The living knight leader almost launched a javelin at the undead mid-air, but there was not enough time, with a boom, rousing dirt and dust, Ourlst had jumped this great distance like it was nothing, landing a bit more than ten meters in front of Aramap, the two knights facing one another, apart from his greatsword, the undead carried only a misericorde dagger on the back of his waist, its slender design perfect to get through any gap in any protective gear.

"So, you would be Ourlst, I presume?" directing the tip of his spear forward, the living had a definitive reach advantage when it came to their weaponry, but he had seen the other undead puke corrosive acid, as well as other demonstrating different special capabilities, assuming the worst, he assumed that Ourlst would be capable of using all tricks his subordinates could.

"That would be me" taking a combat stance, feet firmly grounded, a slight, flame-like shine visible in between the bars of his visor, it was common for greater undeads to have coloured flames nestling in their hollow sockets, but it could even be the case for those that still had eyes, no matter how putrefied and warped they may be.

'General Loimos was right, the southern forces utilise natural battle arts without even realising it, like a beast's roar…' Ourlst recognised the fierceness of the enemy, no islanders had been capable of even comparing to the rank and file, but the warriors of the Southern Shores were, to put it simply, different, what could be achieved by being forged by war was certainly impressive.

Bringing his flat palm, all fingers stretched straight, thumb facing the chest, a sign of prayer amongst the undead.

"Aramap of Belliste, I do hope that you will accept death's compassion when your time comes" then reciting something in death tongue whilst keeping this same posture, a slight shine of holy rubbing over his putrescent flesh.

"Once I am dead, the victorious can do whatever they want with my corpse, that is their right" muscles tensing up, the undead could hear them being put under strain, theoretically, he could know exactly what the warrior would do next.

"Oh, don't you discard the notion of choice, death is very interesting in your own, original thoughts" making sure to preach death's kindness even now, both knights moved, moving past one another, weapons grazing one another, indeed, theory was much different from practice, the living's movements could not be read with absolute precision.

From this minuscule exchange, little could be gleaned, and as both analysed what could be taken out of it, they clashed again, both evaded the other's blow, trying to weave through defences and land the first hit, diverting the spear, Ourlst let his left hand lose its grasp, using to try and land a palm strike, Aramap also freeing one hand to slap it away, jumping back, using his spear to push himself further back, dexterously getting a hold of a javelin, slinging it with monstrous force even with his feet standing on nothing but air, the undead knight blocking it head-on, pushing him back, allowing for an even stronger javelin to be thrown once footing was regained.

Striking this one down, Ourlst doused his blade with black blood, stabbing it deep into the earth, although they tried their hardest to emulate him, the Loimoisian knights could not get anywhere close to the one they had named themselves after, as such, the abilities and techniques derived from their lord's Harbinger's Harvest had to be fashioned by enacting self-imposed vows and through the usage of battle arts to make them work.

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Regular knights only learned a single one of those, focusing to hone their mastery over it, those that chose to go beyond the simplicity used by the black knights joined other castes, moulding their very forms and selves to achieve greater power, rank and file used special items instead.

As the hands of Loimos, Ourlst and Horhir had to set an example of greatness, to inspire the forces they led, thus, they learned much more than a single of those techniques ripped out of their leader's mythical battle style, they had to learn sorceries, impose great vows and hone their understanding of battle arts to the next level, else, who could they seriously call themselves his hands?

The black blood seeped into the soil below, infecting it as Ourlst spoke words of death tongue, clearly telling what was to come, but only for those that could understand him.

"Minor Rot Marsh" in a small radius, the ground turned swampy, sacrificing the lesser corrosion to actually have a chance at slowing Aramap movements, the undead's one speed was increased, the living was certainly surprised by the ground giving in, but as a veteran of the battlefield, it would only take an instant for him to understand and adapt, in this case, Ourlst had to give him something else to think about.

Moving quickly, he raised his blade aloft, going for an overhead slash, an action he went through with, but not of its own, kicking up some of the rotten substance at the living, Aramap naturally preferred to block the sword strike instead of trying to evade the swampy matter, judging that his movements would be insufficient and would only expose him to getting hit right over the head on top of being splashed.

Although non-acidic, the rot had to have served a purpose, all it did is harden and then nothing, pushing the undead back, ripping one foot free from the marsh, Aramap brutally stomped down, the swamp parting in a circle, not only this, but also completely disappearing, leaving only a slight indentation in the earth.

Ourlst's rot marsh was one that did not linger on for too long.

Rising his index and middle finger together, Ourlst used another art, this one, he had had the honour of being guided in its learning by Loimos himself.

"Transmutation…" defining the thing that should be changed into something else, this seemingly simple concept was one that had been incredibly difficult to get a hold of, even with his leader's guidance and through the usage of external means.

The hardened rot exploded into a cloud miasmic smoke, nothing that was very harmful, it would soon be broken apart by the life in the air, but Ourlst only sought to use it as a smoke screen, once again driving his greatsword into the ground, this time running it through into an upward slash, the necessary action required to send a wave of Loimosfire, and also shroud his blade into its embrace at the same occasion.

The left hand wished to see what the most trusted man of a warlord could truly do.