#darksiders abaddon

[askthedarksidersfam]

Heavy metal would kill an angel in an instant.

[lananiscorner]

Contribution for Day 7 (Wildcard) of Darksiders Week 2023--the OG bastard, Abaddon. In both his forms. That concludes the King cards.

[gamingcreatures]

gamingcreatures's year of the dragon:

Abaddon | Darksiders

'Heaven hunts you… Hell hates you. All of creation cares not whether you live or die. Join me War. Like a great sword, I will raise you up and our enemies will shatter against us. The spoils of a thousand victories will be yours. Or serve the justice of a corrupt Council. And a Creator who abandons his most faithful. I offer you this choice Horseman. Would you serve in Heaven or rule in Hell?'

[imagine-darksiders]

Would it be cute if an angel would give their favourite human their loose feathers to stuff pillows and duvets?

CUTE!?

I'd lose. My god. Damn. Mind.

Just imagine Nathaniel or Azrael moulting and gathering up lost feathers to give to you because they know how much you love running your fingers through their wings.

Even Abaddon's tar-black feathers are highly-prized by you, though he's a little more bashful than the other angels, and will leave them outside your windowsill for you to find, like some oversized crow dropping gifts near your house.

[scarletknightreterns]

Abaddon: She's nobody but a wretched, sinful, cluster of failures all wrapped up into a self-proclaimed harbinger of destruction. She will never amount to anything worthy of respect

Death: Are you prepared for the repercussions of those words?

Abaddon: Wha-

Cinder: -Kicks down door, eyes a blazing- WHERE. IS. HE.

Strife, alongside her, guns out: Yeah! I heard that a certain pigeon needed plucking!

[the-makers-daughter]

I noticed something about the Canon dragons in Darksiders.

Frostbane and the Destroyer. They both move similarly to cats!

It makes me wonder what other feline traits they exhibit when they're not trying to fight the horsemen.

It was a lot of inspiration for me when Nyörun was first in development.

[robotdragonfanatic]

As promised, the winner of the previous Most Hated Angel poll gets to go up against Abaddon himself.

May the worst win!

[ambersock]

Hi! Thank you for the addition here:

https://www.tumblr.com/ambersock/726938975826280448/samtheboywhowouldbeking-i-will-never-understand

This meta got me thinking about the comparisons with the Mark of Cain and it turning whoever wields it into a demon when the wielder is killed (ie Dean’s eyes turning black at the end of season 9) with Sam at the end of s4. Given the fact that Sam’s eyes did in fact turn Sam’s eyes black (after he killed Lilith while pumped up with demon blood), if Sam was not purified or cured of the blood (I don’t exactly remember the term used in 5x01), would demon!Sam have been a threat similar to demon!Dean?

Demon!Dean was viewed as (and definitely was) a global threat given his blood lust from the MoC combined with the First Blade, whereas, to me it felt a little more open ended what Sam would look like or be as a demon? There’s a lot of factors I’m considering as I type this but would love your thoughts.

Thank you in advance and looking forward to your thoughts!

@supamerchant thanks for the ask!

So let me start off by stating that had Sam simply continued to use his powers in a way that only benefitted the victims of demon possession, he never would have gone darkside. As we’re shown through Ava and Jake, the key to unlocking powers required crossing moral boundaries. And as Ava and Jake also showed us, their powers did not depend on demon blood. That only factored into the equation after 4x12, when Sam resorted to start drinking demon blood as a short cut to make up for lost time when he stopped using his powers in 4x04. That was just his first step towards moral ambiguity and a way for Ruby to keep him on a leash. The 'purification' that Chuck gave Sam only relieved him from going through physical withdrawl from the demon blood. It did not take away Sam's powers or his potential for going darkside.

But since the question was about Sam going full darkside and becoming a demon, let’s pretend that he gave in and fully embraced it like Ava did. Azazel did not mean for him to become just another demon or a Knight of Hell (Abaddon, Dean with the MoC); he was meant to lead the legions of Hell in an all-out war. He would have had the combined powers of all the special children and then some, probably more akin to a Prince of Hell. The way Azazel obsessed over him, maybe even more. IMO, Sam theoretically had the potential to become far more of a threat than Dean did with the MoC.

[stxriesfromash]

Headcanons / Verses

The Four Horsemen

150 years have passed since the death of The Destroyer (end of Darksiders 1), the great demon lord that terrorized the disastrous wasteland that was Earth after the premature triggering of the apocalypse, thought to have been begun by the Horsemen War - in truth, the Seventh of the Seals that bound the pact between Heaven, Hell, and Earth had been shattered by a Maker called Ulthane in conspiracy with the archangels Azrael and Abaddon in an attempt to give Heaven the upper hand in their ever lasting war with Hell. The demons, however, were prepared for the ploy and stormed the Earth before the Seventh Seal could be shattered, thus foiling Abaddon's plan and defeating the archangel. Abaddon would later fall from grace and become the terror known as The Destroyer.

The Charred Council knew of this but realized that the Horsemen (who would be summoned once all seven seals were broken to spark the end war and calling the lords of paradise and dregs of purgatory to the earthly plane so that the three Kingdoms can fight for the fate of creation) would not enact justice because of the lack of proof. Thus they conspired to send War and let him take the blame, that he would pursue the guilty out of revenge.

Now, 150 years later, the Council has since fallen silent - retreating from the domain they occupied that was destroyed in the final battle between the sin Envy and Fury (end of Darksiders 3). With the final remnants of Hell's armies slain, the surviving angels cast out from Heaven doing their part in repairing the damage done to Earth, the Horsemen themselves have agreed that the council must pay for their transgressions, but not just yet. In due time, they will be punished - but for now, The Horsemen have decided to lay dormant, awaiting for the day they are needed once more.

And what better way to spend their time than by mingling with the new generation of humans on Earth. Under the guise of humans themselves, the Horsemen live out these days standing guard, diligently watching for any malignant sign of the darker forces that may plague Eden once again - all the while, if they have to admit, indulging themselves along the way.

Each Horsemen has taken a human disguise and have sealed their true powers away in pieces of jewelry that they wear in their mortal form at all times - easily accessible to break whenever the time comes for them to unleash their full potential. - Death's conduit is a ring with an oval shaped onyx gemstone. - Strife wears a single silver earring that holds a blue tourmaline gemstone. - Fury's bracelet is her conduit with a fire opal gemstone. - and War has an amulet with a purple topaz embedded into it.

[smehur]

I was talking with my friend about Darksiders shippings, and when i brought up how much i love War/Strife together they told me "Isn't that incest?" i was like: "NO, THEY'RE NOT EVEN LIKE BLOOD RELATED?" tbh i always thought the way they call each other "Brother/Sister" was like an honorific/honorable way of referring? Like saying "Bro/Dude" or similar tbh

Yeah, I don’t think the Horsemen are siblings. The intro for Darksiders (the first game) states clearly that the Horsemen are a brotherhood, and in Genesis, it’s clear that War and Strife know nothing about each other’s past. In The Abomination Vault (the official novel), it is likewise clear that War doesn't know anything about Death’s origins.

The terms ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ are used to signify belonging to a group, not only in this setting, but IRL too, though this is archaic in our day and age. (Think “bro” and “bruh”, though.) In Darksiders, the Horsemen also refer to all other Nephilim as brothers and sisters; Abaddon and Uriel refer to all the other angels as brothers and sisters. To take these terms literally would be absurd.

Yet… most of the fandom (at least, the part that makes and/or consumes art and fic) believes the Horsemen are actual, literal siblings. This HC is so widespread that it effectively turned into fanon, and new people entering the fandom might even think it’s canon. It’s not.

To be clear, I’m of the ship-and-let-ship sort, and I’m not bothered by what the rest of the fandom thinks, though I’m sad that many will skip my fic. But it’s always great to hear from another War/Strife shipper! We’re not as few as it might seem!

Thank you for talking to me, Anon. <3

[askthedarksidersfam]

I thought of a parallel between Abaddon and War.

Both are warriors of a high prestige who had their falls from grace, and went down to a low.

They had a chance to get back up again and fight, but Abaddon chose to give up on his fight and switch morals to save himself.

War on the other hand gauged those odds and rose to face those odds that are astronomically against him. He kept his morals, his integrity as a enforcer of Balance.

One warrior chose the easy way, and the other chose the hardest path despite everything.

[sophi-s]

Abaddon: *sees a human take down a Trauma solo with skill and dexterity*

Abaddon: Well, you may be smaller and more agile but in any other aspect I'm superior.

Human: *raises eyebrow*

Human: *zaps him with a taser and leaves*

[moonlightblade91]

ok, i had the same idea in my head lately with war and abaddon. 

so in this head cannon war and abaddon had to go under cover in the human world.

 because war looks very similar to angels, the idea came to me. what if they meet an old woman with very bad eyes who needs help? and war helps her. 

then the woman looks at the two of them and says to abaddon "you have a very good son you can be proud of him. after the first shock was over, abaddon takes on the role of war father to piss him off. 

he makes stupid dad jokes." , demands respect from him because he is his "father". He even begins to call him son. first in a mocking way but over time the idea grows on him, even if he would never admit it.

[imagine-darksiders]

Finding Inglenook

Chapter 1: An Unhappy Reuinion.

Darksiders: Abaddon X Reader

Tags: Enemies to friends, Unrequited crush, One-sided admiration, Post-resurrection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Protective Abaddon, Explicit language, blood, injury, threat, combat.

----

As a rule of thumb, the back alleys of Haven City are a region that are best granted a wide berth, although, one could argue that the same principle could be said of any back alley. Even after Humanity's unexpected but much appreciated resurrection, the majority of humans still retain their relative distrust of the dark, narrow crevices that cut between the towering skyscrapers and winding streets of the city they died in.

As you meander slowly through the alleyways yourself one cold, winter evening at dusk, you begin to realise that the majority of humans are right to avoid these in-betweens, these through-roads.

Of all the potential shortcuts you could have explored on your way back to your newly-built home near Haven's outskirts, it would be your shoddy luck that you'd stumble upon a squalid and unscrupulous arcade that had – once upon a time – served as the side entrance to a bustling shopping centre. Now, however, there stands nothing more than a derelict thoroughfare for Haven's less than savoury residents.

Shards of glass from discarded bottles crunch under your shoes, the smell of booze saturates the air like a miasma, inescapable no matter which direction you face. The bad air is trapped down here between the buildings where the low sun rays can't reach, much in the same way you are.

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me,” you whine under your breath as you squeeze between a pair of staggering men, doing your utmost not to let your thick hoodie brush against their sweat-stained shirts.

They, like the other several dozen people that have formed a rambunctious crowd across the middle of the arcade, are far too busy whooping and jeering to notice you slip by.

With your head tipped towards the ground and your hood pulled low over your eyes, you can't see what they're hollering at, but from the sounds of grunting, snarling, and the telltale crash of knuckles striking against flesh, you'd bet your last rations you've walked right into a fighting ring.

It's the only likely source of such rowdy excitement. Hardly the kind of place where the 'Horsemen fraterniser' ought to be seen alone without one of the dreaded Four guarding your flank...

Swallowing back a nervous lump, you tug on your hoodie's drawstrings and duck your head, sidling your way through the crowd, desperate to escape to the other side where you'll be home free, provided you can find your way out of this maze of backroads.

Nose scrunched up to defend against the invasive smell of freshly-spilled vomit, you keep your gaze fixed unwaveringly on the sea of boots shuffling along the ground around you, picking your way carefully through them and trying not to think about how furious War would be if he were to ever find out you strayed away from the relative safety of the streets.

All of a sudden, you're torn from your worries by someone knocking into your shoulder, hard enough to send you stumbling sideways into another person before you manage to right yourself, thoroughly startled.

“Hey!” comes a slurred shout from behind you, nearly lost amongst the noise of the crowd.

'Oh no...'

Your heart shoots up to sit on your tongue when somebody – you suppose whoever you've just bumped into - grabs your shoulder and jerks you to a rough halt.

You don't dare turn around to see who has snagged you by the hoodie. The only thing plaguing your mind is the thought that you've been recognised, and now you're about to get a fist to the back of the head for any number of reasons.

As it turns out however, this altercation only seems to have come about thanks to your bungling feet, not your face.

“Watch where you're fucking going, bitch!” that same voice snarls, and before you can even attempt to simply pull yourself out of their grasp and carry on, you feel an unforgiving fist connect with your spine like a battering ram, knocking the wind right out of you as you start to fall.

Stunned, you lose your footing and topple forwards between another pair of strangers who leap aside to let you land jarringly on your hands and knees, feeling flesh tear open on the rough concrete beneath your palms.

Through gritted teeth, you exhale a slow, uneven breath instead of all the uncouth words you want to spit out onto the ground like venom.

You're really beginning to regret not turning around as soon as you stepped into this Creator-forsaken alley.

The crowd around you hardly seems to have noticed your stumble, still caterwauling as you draw your head up... only to find the path ahead of you unobstructed.

Seconds later, you realise why.

You've fallen at the edge of an open space, with the crowd itself forming a ring of people that serves as the threshold for a makeshift, fighting arena.

At its centre stand two figures.

The first and largest has their back to you, and they're the one that draws your attention, yet it isn't their size that holds your gaze, though that in itself is exponential.

No. It's the bedraggled and begrimed wings that dangle limply from the figure's spine, dragging along the ground near a pair of leather boots.

Your eyelids burst open in surprise.

It wouldn't take a scholar to know the creature at first glance.

But what the Hell would an Angel be doing in a place like this?

Your unspoken question is swiftly answered when your eyes drop to the second figure, flitting like a gnat from side to side in front of the angel's impressive bulk, fists raised and purpled with bruises.

You recognise her as well, by name if not by species.

Ivy Harris – Just another human, like you, but with a temper that's as perilous as her tongue. She lives at the end of your street, and she is not shy about her outspoken, visceral hatred of all the other species who have come to share the realm of Earth.

Some humans just... can't get past what was done to them during the End War.

Ivy is one such person.

You always guessed that she was a severely troubled young teen, especially given the trauma of waking up to find that her entire world had fallen apart around her, but to try and take on an angel in hand-to-hand combat?

She must be utterly and thoroughly mad.

Or at least, that's what you assume, until she darts forwards and the angel makes a sloppy strafe to the left, far too slow to avoid the curled fist that socks them squarely in the jaw. Their head snaps up towards the sky, and the crowd around you roars triumphantly at the stolen blow.

Rather than cheer alongside them, you can only stare in bafflement, incredulous than an angel would allow such a wild swing to land. They hadn't even raised their fists to defend themselves.

On hands and knees, you let your jaw hang ajar, gaping up at Ivy as she circles the angel, slowly drawing him around to face you.

Sweat drips from her brows and into her lashes, prompting a rapid shake of her head to clear her vision.

“Had enough yet? Huh? Pigeon?” She spits the insult alongside a globule of saliva near the angel's boots before wiping at her mouth with the back of a wrist. “You think you can just do what you did and get away with it? You fucking wank-splat! I'll cave your ugly skull in and turn it into a fucking plant pot!”

A charming girl, really.

You have to wonder what on Earth this angel did that could piss her off enough that she'd hurl such creative insults and threats his way. More pressingly than that however, you wonder whether you should tell Azrael about this.

Or, perhaps Usiel.

You know the commander is operating in the shipping district, and from the size of this new angel, they could very well be a member of his troop gone astray, if they're even here of their own free-will at all.

You've learned a lot about the theological and physical doctrine of angels, predominantly taught to you via an over-eager Azrael, or through the odd lecture from Jamaerah, the Scribe. One of the takeaways you got from such discussions is that an angel's wings are an extension of their very soul, something you only started paying attention to after you learned the fact.

Jamaerah seldom leaves his station at the Crystal Spire's extensive library, and as such, his wings never really grew from the vestigial state they were when he was a fledgling, many eons ago.

Azrael has always leaned more heavily on his magical abilities rather than take up a weapon in battle. And as a result, his sweeping wingspan grew large and wide over time, losing their bulk but gaining great length in his primary feathers, each of which boasts a soft, blue sigil that reflects his most frequented spells.

This angel however, the one slowly turning to keep Ivy in their sights, looks to have lost every trace of life in their wings at all. It's heart-breaking to look at, now that you're aware of how closely those wings are tied to an angel's health and well-being.

You couldn't fathom why any of the proud beings of Heaven would let their wings fall into such disrepair.

Thin, wispy feathers have been stained almost entirely brown by the unmistakable, rusty tint of long-dried blood, leaving just the barest glimpse of ebony to peek through in sparse intervals, and even that is an unusual coloration to see, far afield from the hue of a typical angel's feathers.

They wings are wide, and you imagine they must have once been very impressive, but now, you can actually see the glistening pink of tendons through the meagre feathers that have somehow managed to cling to the bone of the ulna.

“If only your blows struck half as deeply as your words,” the strange angel thrums in a gravelly voice that pricks your ears for a reason you can't quite wrap your head around, “Perhaps you might actually leave some lasting damage...”

Ivy's response is to thrust her hands into the air, both middle fingers lifted proudly towards the sky.

It would be the perfect opportunity for the angel to get in his own strike, and in fact, you actually wince on behalf of Ivy. But as the seconds pass and she returns to her fighting stance, you realise that the angel has just allowed that moment to pass them by... something unheard of for the strategically gifted species.

What the Hell is going on?

Sitting back on your haunches, you ignore the wayward foot that treads on the back of your calf and instead crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the angel's face as Ivy finally circles to stand in front of you. Perhaps if you can take away a defining feature or two, you could describe them to Usiel so that he can shed some light upon why they might be here, or how an angel might fall from grace to land in one of Haven City's seediest back alleys in the first place.

But it's at that moment that you finally lay eyes on the angel, and all thoughts of solving this mystery fly out of the proverbial window.

Once you look upon the face of what had only moments ago been obscured by Ivy's spry figure, any and all traces of pity or compassion that have gradually been swirling behind your ribcage promptly evaporate in the blink of an eye.

Sweeping in to take their place comes a rancid, bitter hatred and the foul chill of shock that twists your face into a horrified and open-mouthed expression, all within the span of a single second.

The face that looks back at you – or rather, back at Ivy – is one that you recognise, but also one that you'd hoped never to see again, not for the rest of your life, and well beyond that.

Everyone in the alley falls silent, though you're almost sure people are still hollering. It's the ringing in your ears that has drowned out any other noises surrounding you.

You want to throw up. You want to run. You want to call for War and hope the Horseman is somehow, miraculously within earshot.

You must have gasped, or made some kind of sound, though you don't hear yourself make it, because at that moment, a single, pale eye tears itself from Ivy and swivels down to land on your face. The other eye remains obscured behind an all too familiar plate of solid gold and onyx that serves as a circular patch, fused into the angel's skin but doing little to hide the scars that stretch halfway up his forehead.

You know from Death's many stories that there isn't an eye beneath that patch, just an empty hole that's as dark as the weapon which stole half of the angel's vision millions of years ago.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins as his remaining eye finally locks onto yours and grows wide, perfectly reflecting the same kind of shock you must be displaying on your own face.

Slowly, your mouth drops open of its own accord, and before you can realise what you're about to utter, you've already croaked the name of humanity's most hated angel.

“Abaddon?”

At this point, asking his name is entirely redundant. You'd recognise that face anywhere.

Abaddon – former leader of the Hellguard. Destroyer.

The very angel who owes his continued existence to you, and you alone.

You watch the recognition flash across the ex-General's face, and then you watch his mouth fall open and form the shape of a single word, spoken in a hushed, gravelly murmur, yet somehow it rings as loud as a thunder clap in your eardrums.

“Y/n?”

With the utterance of your name, the noise of the crowd comes surging back to you all at once, and with it, a sudden rush of adrenaline that kicks your brain into gear and sends you scrambling upright onto your feet.

You hear his voice – that awful voice – calling your name again, much louder this time, almost a shout that's half drowned out by the people around him, but you're already turning on your heel and shoving your way back through the ocean of people, this time being far less precious about who you bump into or blunder past.

Another call of your name, accompanied by boos and jeers from the crowd, who're more than likely upset that their evening's entertainment has been put on pause.

Someone elbows you in the ribs as you knock into them, yet you only give a muted grunt and twist your head over a shoulder whilst you run, feeling your heart lurch in alarm as you see Abaddon staring down at you from over the throng of humans.

He'd always been enormous, from what you recall, even when he wasn't trapped in the form of a fire-breathing dragon who attempted to swipe both you and War out of Ruin's saddle that fateful day so many months ago.

You're reminded of the angel's gargantuan stature now. While he's not quite the height or width of a maker, he certainly stands several feel taller than War, and at least two metres higher than your own head.

A thin line of blood trickles from the angel's nose, but that's all you catch a glimpse of before you burst through the back of the crowd and hurtle forwards into a dead sprint, your shoes kicking up stones and grit in your haste to retreat.

As suddenly as you arrived, you vanish back down the alley you'd only just ventured through, with the eyes of a ghost burning holes in the base of your skull.

[the-makers-daughter]

How powerful is Nyörun?

Well, It depends on what you mean by "Powerful". Magically? Or physically? The answer to both of those questions is surprisingly similar! When her story first begins, she wants to reject what she is. She doesn't realize how important her role is. Adding this under the cut because it's very long. I kinda went ham answering this one!

By the end of her story, she is fully accepting of her role as the mouthpiece or avatar of the Tree of Life. So I guess the best comparison I can make is that she's the foil for Frostbane. He is the avatar of the void.

She can hold her own against fighting Abaddon or as she knows him, The Destroyer.

She does not match him in military tactics and wit, but she is another dragon and has been one for what I assume is longer than him, so she is more aware of her body than he is.

There was a small story I was working on a long time ago with @coloredgravity and @crowsofafeather where her soul got stolen from her and while Death was trying to get it back, War was saddled with the duty of holding her off since he is the strongest of the Nephilim in raw strength.

In terms of magic? Nyorun is strong because she pulls hers from the Tree of Life, so her breath weapon is... a little op... Her magic has the ability to restore life, or return you to the lifestream. I.E. Kill you instantly. It's kinda a nuclear breath weapon; or a big biohazard. Despite that, it is beautiful.

I found this gif a while ago so I'm not sure where to give the proper credit, but it's this blinding flash of light when used in a combat setting. sorry, this post was kinda long! I hope it helps answer the question!

[robotdragonfanatic]

Like the title says: which final boss fight did you enjoy the most for whatever reason? (due to mechanics, story, characters, music or anythung else etc.)