Demonic Warlord's Barding Novels & Stories

The doors of the cathedral burst open, splinters of wood flying in every corner. Dust and smoke flooded the sacred hall as more than twenty men swarmed in, their blackened armor clacking with every step they took. Etched on their breastplate was a sigil—a broken sun stabbed by a dagger—confirming my thoughts. Skarr. Their gaze swept through the place before finally landing on me. “There!" a man snarled from within the group. He pushed through the men as he came out into view.

Bruce was second in line, his brother Conrad, was supposed to be dad’s Beta. Bruce and Conrad had been out on patrol one early morning when they got a mind-link that rogues had breached the northern border. By the time my grandfather, dad and our warriors got there, Conrad was dead. Bruce was holding his brother’s dead body in his arms, crying. The area looked like a fight had happened and Bruce had injuries that were slowly healing. He was covered in blood that we assumed was rogue blood mixed with his and Conrad’s since he was holding his bloody body. No one ever questioned his story. I mean why would they, Conrad was his brother. What if Bruce arranged to have his brother killed for the B

The piece was of a famous Hero named The Dominator, she wore her trademark horned helm with a skin tight light armor bodysuit, all jetblack and her bladed whip called Aggressors Wrath that glowed with brilliantly violent power. She was standing over a Demon Lord who looked like he was smashed into his throne by the way his blood was shown splattered all over it, and there were what looked like thousands of low level Demons behind her all with broken bones or blown off limbs causing the expanse of hell to look more....hellish.

The commander was sitting at the head of the table, holding a steel cup in her hands, while she watched with an arched eyebrow at the warrior who continued to laugh patting himself on the abdomen. The commander had changed, wearing a simple red dress with a wide neckline on the chest that highlighted the breasts. On his shoulders he had fine, well-kept and elaborate steel shoulder straps on which dragon scales had been created. From the shoulder straps started coppery threads that joined a choker formed by threads of red fabric. From the shoulder straps descended, along the arms to the ground, soft semi-transparent red fabric

His sinewed body making it readily apparent he was a warrior. “Harbinger!” Countless Firoque cries added to the crescendo until it was an echoing wail reverberating through the walls. Without his cloak covering him the strange lights he emanated that only demons could see, were nearly blinding to their eyes.

With a heart-wrenching scream, the purplish-red light in the void suddenly expanded and shook off all the golden-purple ‘Path’ characters. A brand-new supreme Demonic Body replaced the soul consciousness and the Demonic Spirit, revealing a mysterious and powerful, terrifying power emanating with vast evil. He had crimson hair, swaying without wind, dressed in a black and red python robe, with a blood-red flowing cloak draped behind him. He held a demonic spear that radiated daunting demonic energy. Thick purplish-red demonic clouds rolled above his head, and sixteen rapidly rotating skulls beneath his feet. It was like the arrival of a grim reaper, causing the world to change color.

Beasts that had once been wolves, now corrupted by forbidden rituals—twisted, monstrous things that didn’t seem to feel pain or fear. And at the center, on a black horse with eyes like embers, sat Daven Fort. His dark armor shimmered faintly with blood magic, layered in crimson and obsidian. His face was colder than ever, expressionless, unreadable—but the hatred in his eyes when they landed on Marcus was unmistakable. He had not come for surrender. He had come for war. Behind Marcus, the Stormborn warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, their armor glinting with silver. No one spoke. No one needed to. Their Alpha’s silence had said more than a thousand speeches ever could.

A masculine voice said behind her. Immediately Meagan turned surprised that someone had heard her mumbling to herself amidst the commotion and loud music. Her gaze locked with a tall handsome man, his hair packed in a bun style, his wrestlers shoulders were part of his muscular physique and his well chiseled chest was bare only a double crossed whip on him. He had a dark bristly mustache, dressed in a khaki pant and black leather boots with detachable whips dangling from the belt on both sides. Meagan recognized his outfit. “Warlord Baron?” Meagan said.

Their Battle-Mages began to chant, weaving a canopy of violet protective wards overhead. "Hold the line!" Elder Sterling screamed, his voice amplified by magic. "Purge the unclean!" The two armies collided with the force of a tectonic shift. The sound was deafening—the crunch of armor, the wet tear of flesh, the boom of magical detonations. Volkov was the tip of the spear. The Lycan Warlord, shifted into his massive, scarred war-form, hit the front line of the Wardens like a runaway train. He ignored the spears that poked at his thick hide. He swept a massive clawed hand out, shattering three shields and sending the soldiers behind them flying into the air like ragdolls.

The woman replied in a thoughtful tone her features hidden by the slight shadow cast on her face. Another man spoke up from his position leaning against the door of the room "What should we do now My Lady? What are your orders?" He asked. He was dressed in more conservative fashion, similar to those who tend to dress in to enter the temple. His outer robe were dark brown, and the inner grey robe was buttoned up to the top. He has a sword strapped to his side as well as a small bottle of wine hung be his waist. In his hands he held a wide rimmed hat, his posture shows that moments ago he was prepared to set off.