Morgo Domanu wandered northward through the endless expanse of the Salquedor grasslands, stopping occasionally to peer back towards the south. Ever since he had been released from prison, the orc had been overcome by a horrible case of paranoia. It was still remarkable that he was released from that horrid place. What were the chances that a shadow elemental would become eternally attached to the orc due to a freak summoning. Luckily for Morgo, that slim opportunity actually happened, creating Darkoth, a shadow that was, for some reason or another, connected to the orc.

At Morgo's side, a mace known as Denger's Talon hung, still fresh with blood. Along his way through Salquedor, the psychopath had come across a well known village, Estolad. It was there, that he satisfied his dastardly needs. Within moments from now, a mother would come to her child's crib, only to find a gruesome scene of horrible mutilation and utmost pain. Just at the thought of the terror she would experience created a small smirk across his lips. He chuckled, which soon erupted into a roaring laughter. He was not laughing just at his crime, but at humanity. They again would have something to fear. And that something was getting his power back.

Already, his chaotic lupine minion rejoined him on his quest for death and destruction. Aha was wandering somewhere in the plains, probably preying on some unsuspecting foe. Morgo also regained a fraction of his magic, as well as his most beloved possession, Denger's Talon. Unfortunately, his alligator, Xoac, had perished at the hands of the Guard, probably served into some stew. Morgo had used that alligator as an anchor to the world, to help him become sane enough to have conversation that might lure his victims. Now, he would need to find something else to stave him away from insanity.

Slowly, the landscape began to change. More and more trees began to appear, and then suddenly transitioned into a small and thin forest. The turf was fluffy and relaxing, and occasionally a small brook gurgled by. The atmosphere was so serene, relaxed, and calm. It was so similar to his state of mind. After a murder, Morgo felt as if he was tranquil, just like the relaxing forest he wandered in. But when he went with the conscious of clean hands, he would need to find some way to inflict pain on an undeserving person. The urge would drive him so far, pushing any other thought out of the way. He would become overpowered with the desire to spill blood. It was his need, his ecstasy.

Morgo stopped at the foot of another brook. This one was by far the biggest in the forest, with several trout. The orc sat at the shore of its gurgling mouth. He dipped his mace in the water, watching the blood relax off the mace and rush down the river. He hummed merrily, singing a tune of joy and merriment. 'How good is it to be free?' he asked himself rhetorically. He sat at the brook, stroking his mace, enjoying the serene environment.

Sitting on top of a large boulder he thought of what would become of him being summoned. The wizard that had summoned him was foolish enough to attempt it on top of the blood stained grass that was once a viridescent grass. Because of his recklessness during the summoning process the blood on the ground was infused with my own. I was enraged at this when I was summoned. I had even killed my own summoner. But I could feel deep inside my body the presence of my summoner was near.

Darkoth spent hours looking for his master. Until finally he had given up. The shadow elemental had wandered onto some small ponds surrounded by large bushes of many sizes and color. but one attracted his attention. As he tried to pick a flower off the bush Darkoth quickly retracted his hand to find marks where he had touched the flower. They quickly went away but the elemental decided to stay away from the flower encase it contained something he was not meant to have.

The elemental took his hand stared at it as if there was a terrible thing about to happen. In caution the rogue took his hands and placed them on his shoulders. They immediately started to glow a faint red color. A magical cloak covered his shoulders and his back with a black cape of darkness. Kneeling down he took out his Black dagger and started searching for any sign of harm that could come to himself. A few minuets later he came upon a small camp. What stood out the most to Darkoth was the amount of warriors guarding a large tent. He circled the tent to find there were six warriors guarding the tent. To his surprise only one guard stood on the small side of the rectangular shaped tent. Darkoth crept behind him and quickly covered the guards mouth as he took the dagger and stabbed it through the warriors leather armour into the temple of his head causing an instant death to the foolish gaurd the stood in his way.

Kicking the dead guards body out of the way he withdrew his blood covered dagger from its sheath on his leg and silently took it and cut a hole in the side of the cloth tent so he could fit himself through. It was dark in the tent as it was outside with only the light of a dim candle on the other side next to a man laying face down on a bed covered by white silk sheets. Darkoth went behind the man chuckeling and then quickly took his dagger and stabbed the man multiple times in the torso. The man screamed in pain as the dagger pierced his back time after time. He heard the guards rushing to the front of the tent to see what had happened inside and the elemental rushed out the hole he had created with his dagger and ran until he could no more.

The light breeze that drifted across the Salquedor grasslands gently played with the silver hair of the angel Ethari Xilophent as he flew across the sea of green below him. His wings grew tired quickly, even after a measly thirty minutes of flying, and yet, he was exhausted. He didn't know why, but he was much weaker than he was three years ago. So much time had passed and he didn't know what had happened. It wasn't amnesia, yet at the same time, it was. It was as if that chunk of his life had been deleted. He woke up in the Sanctuary of angels one day, and was alive. He was exactly the same. Yet something was different, he was different. He was no longer as powerful as he was three years ago. His wings, his powers, they were all depleted massively. A dark portal had sucked away those three years, his archangel heritage and his powers!

When he awoke at the sanctuary, his head was dipped in a fountain. He awoke due to oxygen deprivation. He actually he was still in his battle against Chaos. Wait. Not Chaos. But Morgo Domanu. Why was it that he thought of Morgo to be Chaos itself when in fact he was far from it? But to him, his fight against Morgo was a fight against Chaos. But the fight was over. Morgo was no where to be seen, only a few angels strolling the streets, casting a strange glance of the angel. Had he died, or just been recovering from a near death encounter? What was the cause for his lack of power? He didn't know, nor did he want to.

A burst of moisture brought him back to reality, as he flew threw a thick puffy marshmallow like cloud. He gasped for breath; his smaller wings depleted his energy quickly. If only he could get back the time he had lost. Ethari pressed his wings to his back much like a dove would, and fell to the ground. He was oddly peaceful in this state that could easily cause death. He fell quietly to the ground, his skin clingy tightly to his face due to the pressure of his fall. The sight of the ground quickly appearing brought him back to reality and he willed that his armor to sprout the wings he would need for his survival.

Metallic wings grew from the back of his armors. He flapped them quickly to gain altitude. It was much easier to fly with these new wings, but to him, they only reminded him of his real ones being much weaker than they should be. They were fake, and he depended on them for survival, and made the entire world feel so unnatural. As he gained altitude, a set of tents caught his attention. He fell for a moment, to get a better look at them.

He landed just behind them, his fake metallic wings folding and disappearing into his magical armor. Ethari looked behind him for the sight of his new follower of Balance. A tiny speck was walking on the horizon and he assumed it to be him. Ethari would look around while he awaited his arrival.

Ethari walked gingerly around the side of the tent much like a cat, and along with the powers of his Cloak of Darkness, his steps were very much muffled. On the side of the tent was a large opening cut out rudely with a dagger. Ethari entered carefully. He could see a shadow elemental stabbing a man in the back viciously with a dagger very similar to his own. He quickly created a Globe of Darkness through out the room, enveloping it in darkness. He pressed himself up against the wall, and held his breath, hoping the creature of darkness wouldn't spot the angel.

(OOC: Sorry it stinks, I'm kinda tierd. Darkoth, you wrote a bit in first person a bit, and you should change it, you might get a warning for something like that.)

Morgo had finished cleaning his precious weapon minutes ago, yet his fingers dangled almost lifelessly in the water. His mind scraped across his concious, his perceptive on the world changing to a more reflective state. Three years of his life was spent confined, merely because of his ultimate joy. Locking someone up for doing the things they loved was surely a crime.

Morgo was indeed a psycopath. He needed to constantly kill, just like a vampire needs to feed. Yet instead of feeding upon the blood or life force of his victims, he only needed to see the life force slip slowly away from them. Although this brought him no physical sustenance like a vampire, he still needed to kill regularly. It was embedded into his mind, his soul, his very essence. It was amazing how much more crazy the orc became without bloodshed. He was truly a warrior of chaos, killing not only for pleasure, but because of need. He needed to kill, otherwise his mind would become different.

And yet, Morgo was unsure how he even survived those three years in prison. He hadn't the oppurtunity to kill one soul. He needed to see pain reflected across one's eyes, or even the strange tone one's voice took when they began to scream and howl. He even took matters into his own hands. He mutilated himself. Several guards wouldn't even guard him due to the constant screams followed by truly estatic chuckles. Sometimes he would errupt in a jubilant show of laughter. His eyes became blood shot, he talked to the guards about the disturbing points of his life, and even attempted to attack them on several occasions.

But now, the orc was free. He could return back to spreading chaos. Although he called himself a warrior of chaos (and he in fact was), he didn't spread chaos for furthering the purposes of the domain. He truly enjoyed killing, spreading havoc, and wrecking discord upon citizens. Morgo was resourceful, even tricky at times. Yet he never had a plan. So many things could go wrong with plans. He considered them like blinders. With a set objective, one would miss so many other things that could have been helpful. But then again, Morgo didn't have much of a specific goal. In fact, his was rather general. Spread chaos, and live while doing so.

Morgo quickly came to life at the startling sound of ripped cloth. When he turned slightly to the east, walking past a thick grove of trees. Behind the great elms and redwoods, a small encampment was set up peacefully. Several quaint bodies lay motionless on the ground. Occasionally, the melodic gurgle of a strugle to breath came from one of the bodies. The ground was painted a brilliant shade of red, and by the intricate and wonderful patterns, it was apparent that no mercy was shone. His eyes light up at the thought of the murders here. His mind fluttered happily as he imagined as screams pierced the air. Someone had fun here.

His mind quickly escaped him, and he began to beat the bodies. He bashed them with his mace repeatadly, sometimes chuckling. He roared happily, the pleseant cry of an orc, a cry one might here from an orc at a pub or bar. Blood splattered noisily against the tent, staining the brown canvas. He was completely oblivious to the shadow within the tent and the angel crawling within it. He was enjoying himself to the fullest, using these bodies as an oppurtunity to release tension. Just by desecrating the corpses, he became a higher being, reaching such a level of excitement that he was completely lost in the outer world. It had been a while before he had done some actual work, and after his years in prison, he realized he took the privlidge for granted. Now, he took every oppurtunity he had to kill.