Path of Exile Talent Competition

CLANG.

The room is dark, the only light sources being the sweltering forge, the single, sputtering torch on the far wall, and the red-hot rod of steel being worked.

CLANG.

A spray of sparks from the strike briefly illuminates the man at the anvil, revealing the tattered remains of what was once a magnificent, feathered headdress.

CLANG.

His eyes, reflecting the glow of the flames, are empty; his mind gone, endlessly reliving the final months of the construction.

CLANG.

The times the Outsider appeared.

CLANG.

There was no other term that fit him. He appeared out of nowhere, in a different spot each time, brought death with him, and vanished just as quickly.

CLANG.

Twelve times the Outsider appeared. Twelve times one of the Architects’ Council fell to his blade. Twelve times the slaves were massacred. Twelve times, the sole survivor vowed revenge.

The steel rod has cooled too far to be worked, so it goes back in the fire.

Atmohua, originally charged with creating the golden filigree that would decorate the Queen’s throne room, pledged that no blade would ever draw the Architect’s Council’s blood again, and turned his ornamentally focused workshop into a chamber filled with the finest ironworking tools. The cuirasses, greaves and gauntlets that emerged from his efforts were rivaled by none. But the Outsider was only barely slowed by the armorer’s marvels and sliced through the thick iron plates with ease.

Cholotl, the Slavemaster, decided that sheer numbers would overwhelm the Outsider and began training the slaves in combat. Yet though he packed the temple to the rafters with his army, the Outsider cleaved through them as though they weren’t even there.

CLANG. The rod is hot again and returns to the anvil.

Matatl, the Tinkerer, had taken a malevolent spin on his contraptions and become as much a danger to the temple’s inhabitants and himself as he lined the halls with all manner of spinning blades, spikes, and poisonous darts. Alas, he was driven mad, eventually trapping himself in his own workplace. And the Outsider bypassed his traps completely, as he appeared directly within the rooms themselves.

CLANG.

Uromoti abandoned his exploration of the continent, and in a desperate attempt to find the Outsider, somehow managed to pierce the veil between worlds, and gazed unto the Void. But he was wholly unsuccessful, and what he found there brought only insanity.

Zalatl had determined that the Outsider utilized the Tears, and delved deeper into his craft, augmenting the Council’s powers far beyond what they had originally been, in a desperate attempt to fight fire with fire. Yet though their fire burned fierce, and their powers could break mountains, the Outsider’s might was even greater still.

Distant screams echo from the doorway. The man’s hammer pauses on its zenith of the next strike, as for the first time in over a thousand years something is different. He grins; an ugly, feral grin of a man gone mad from Cataclysm. Enough of himself is left to recognize: The Outsider has at last returned. But this time, it will be different.

It’s been centuries. Cholotl’s army has grown even further. Every single denizen of Atzoatl is now clad in the finest examples of Atmohua’s work. Everyone’s skin glitters at every joint of their body with highly refined Tears of Maji, courtesy of Zalatl. And in the possession of every being that has hands, and even some that don’t, are swords, axes, daggers, maces, bows, staves, and countless other weapons, crafted by a man gone mad at the anvil, sharpened to a degree that they slice the very air itself.

Ticaba, formerly the Arena Master, now the Blacksmith, drops his forging hammer, and readies his warhammer. They are prepared. At last, the Outsider will reap what he sowed. At last, the Council will have its revenge. At last, the Outsider will meet justice.

At last, they will have their revenge.