Pantheon - The Third Age - Story and Writings Thread

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Eztlicoatl
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Post by Eztlicoatl »

Journal of Mercuse di Montressor, second expedition in the jungles of Malyth, south of the Great Range:

Spring, Third Week of Journey,

Last night, Francisco Dialvo went missing. The men have been sent into turmoil. An hour after dawn, we came across a small village beside the river, and we set upon it with vigour and determination. The consensus was that Dialvo’s disappearance was the work of the savages who live therein. More pragmatically, as a result of quartermasters not properly packing some of our cases, and the foodstuffs spoiling, our supplies have been lower than anticipated. Landfall seemed prudent.

The village could offer us no resistance. Their headmen pleaded their innocence, and begged us to see that many of their men had gone missing also. Indeed, the village did seem quiet, and the people much afraid. Nevertheless, I gave the order to have the village plundered of its stores. When Calasso found human skulls in a communal shack, our indignation rose and, by necessity of our horrified senses, we killed a few of the men of the village.

We departed, our hearts full of horror.

The river, as ever, is harangued by the demoniac cries of parrots, monkeys, and cicadas. And yet, the waters and the shores are still. Though the jungle is vibrant and ever rich in colour, it seems a desolate place - a stranger to life, love, and hope.

Today, as of the last weeks, the sun beats down with a not-as-before seen brightness and heat. It seems incredible to acknowledge, but the hours of sunlight have doubtless lengthened. It is not yet the summer, though light rivals dark for a full two hours more in the day than it should. It is hell for the men to remain in their armour under the full glare of noon.

Dusk approaches as I write this. The men are paranoid and watchful of the jungle. They keep a vigil upon it. Some wish to turn back and hunt for Dialvo. I have forbidden it. Despite the crew swearing they had not seen him drink, it is my belief that his own inebriation carried him to a murky grave, sometime through the night. I have had ale rations cut for the night.

I look at that terrible sun now, as it sinks below the horizon and, although I am glad to feel the chill of night upon me, I feel another impulse. It is an odd sensation. A feeling of loneliness, alike a child watching a parent turn and vanish from view.
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an Carraig
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Post by an Carraig »

i am neither.
i am the only part of you that lives on, maclaomainn.
look on me.
i told him,
for i have been a prisoner in your heart and know you love me still.

he looked up then. the scar ran from the corner of his right eye down his face and dropped off his jawline. the iris of his right eye was not the deep emerald green of the left, but white, as if the pigment had drained down the runnels of his ruined cheek. it was with the white eye he saw me, sitting among the shadows.

this is how it always starts, maclaomainn. this is how it goes. the injunction.
you help me find what i need and i help you find what you need. we serve each other.


the last woman that asked me to help her find something was sorely disappointed.

yes. she lies yonder in the black scourge. is that why you never go? why you clean the shit of lesser men and beg the oblivion of liquor to keep you from dreaming night after night. to be near her?
do you imagine she sees you? or that she'll come swimming up out of that pit like a selkie to you someday? shed whatever grotesquerie that is her skin now and be reborn to you whole from that stinking...


enough. what do you want?

i want you to give her what she deserves, maclaomainn, all that is left of your heart now. justice.

you want me to go back to the Walls.

yes.

there is no justice on the Walls.

there is now.

you are The Searsanach? an Carraig?

i am. will you help me, Maclaomainn? will you give me your sword?

i haven't got one.

we'll remedy that straight away. Rejoin The Grey Guard. there are still men and women on the Walls who love me, Maclaomainn. gather to you those that know me.
look for the help of the Ice Titans as well. their lord has granted them leave to help us. travel the roads atop the ice walls. reorganize the patrols where they have fallen into decadence. protect and serve. dispense justice where you must and leave my sigul as a sign to all. the need for justice in Eiran is great and my purpose is imperative, Maclaomainn.


and what if i fail? what then Searsanach?
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Anaya
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Post by Anaya »

In [i]The Journeys of the Grey-Eyed Goddess[/i], Anaya wrote:Concerning the 2nd Abyssal War

While the collapse of the Icewalls near Altrian, Southwall and Ymdrar in the year 492 of the Third Age was a fearful event, the 1st Abyssal War was short lived, due to both the relatively small size of the breaches and the limited number of abyssal creatures that came through them. Rather it was the 2nd Abyssal War just over 500 years later that truly struck terror into the hearts of the peoples of Eiran.

Late Autumn in the year 1,006 of the Third Age saw various Harvest Festivals where being held in cities and towns throughout the Shattered Lands. People had spilled out of their homes into the streets and were singing, dancing and feasting in celebration of a particularly bountiful harvest. Watchtowers along the length of both the Dusk Claw and the West Claw remained manned, though not to the extent that they were in the sixth century when memories of the Abyssal War were fresh in everyone's memories.

It was a warm evening that saw many families enjoying the delights of the twilight when the Shattered Lands were rocked by an earthquake. Though it caused little damage itself, it was later found to have been the result of one of the greatest catastrophes to ever befall our world - a three-mile section of the Icewall near the western end of the Void's Ward Moonbridge had collapsed, allowing legions of the foul creatures that inhabited the abyss to swarm through the breach. Those guarding the nearby watchtowers were quickly slain, but not before one managed to light a signal fire, setting of a chain reaction that quickly carried warning of this grave threat to nearby settlements.

Such warnings however served little purpose, for Illyria fell scarcely eight days later and Areket was raised less than a month after that. By the height of Winter, The Sanctuary alone in all the central portion of the Shattered Lands stood against the horrific force that had invaded Eiran. It was before the walls of The Sanctuary however, that those fearsome creatures were frustrated, for the city remained inviolate for two years before the attackers were able to penetrate it's defences. By this time hunger had carried off the old, the injured and the infirm, leaving but a small band of survivors to forge a legend for themselves as they died in defence of their homes.

Amongst those were the last members of the Order of the Amethyst Heart - charged by the Weaver in the Second Age with the care and protection of the Woven Sphere, the greatest oracle of that Age. While Falilluir, the original Voice of the Weave, had passed on many years before, his successors had continued to speak the words of Fate from within the Sphere's brilliant amethyst framework, and the Order had continued to serve as their former Goddess had bid them.

For a day these 21 men and women held the Temple of the Woven Sphere, but as night fell their line was broken and the spawn of the Abyss rushed in to defile one of the last holy places of the Second Age. Last to fall was Keslin, First of the Order, fighting before the altar to protect Lixiss, the Voice of the Weave, as she stood within the Woven Sphere and gathered her power. As her final defender died in front of her with a long cruel talon protruding from his chest, Lixiss opened her mouth to speak as Voice of the Weave for the final time. What emerged however was not prophecy but rather a cry of such power that the Woven Sphere itself was shattered. Few of the horrifying creatures that had besieged the city survived Lixiss' cry, and those that did were scattered to the winds and eventually hunted down and slaughtered by troops from Alemanth, Senanye, Veria and Void's Ward. Not long after, the great gap in the Icewall finally healed itself - almost two and a half years after it first opened.

The destruction of the Woven Sphere set in motion what has become known as the Great Decline - those who were once seers or oracles found that the gift was gone. The future could no longer be read in the flickering of the flame, or in the ripples on the water, and even the Deck of Dragons fell silent. Galbana leaf and eksir berries became incredibly rare, and obsidian pheasants, believed to be able to foresee death, were believed to be extinct. Only one glimmer of hope was left to those who had once practised divination - the rumour that an amethyst shard from the Woven Sphere itself had survived the destruction of the Sanctuary.
Last edited by Anaya on Mon Feb 04, 2008 8:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Fate is the path you choose to walk
And Fate is the path down which you are thrust
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Eztlicoatl
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Post by Eztlicoatl »

Journal of Mercuse di Montressor, second expedition in the jungles of Malyth, south of the Great Range:

Spring, Fifth Week of Journey,

The horizon is a pall of grey and black, smoke hangs thickly in the distance, a funeral shroud over the limits of the jungle. Something burns. We plunge ever down the river, watching the shadows of the wilderness, watching the languid water hug our boats, and watching the murky hue of the sun from behind the ashen haze.

Word of our progress has travelled along the banks. When we come upon a village now, we find it deserted, the inhabitants doubtless lurking in their squalid jungle. The men are pleased by this, as we can loot supplies with impunity; though I despise our dwindling contact with the natives. I am in need of verification of my charts, and I would like word on the nature of the distant fire. Daily, my heart hangs heavier with despair the more that I contemplate the smoke could be the rising ashes of my destination.

Morale is ebbing. I had to order fourteen lashes today, given to Rodrigo Mendoga, for inciting three men to take a rowboat in the night and attempting to flee back upriver. Mendoga is as strong as a damned Nhruuk, but his will has been broken. The other three were given five lashes each, made to rub salt into each other’s wounds, and strapped to the rigging of our lead boat. I find such punishments distasteful, and I regret taxing my manpower in such a fashion, though it is good for men to see that laws hold on water as they do on land.

Yet, I suspect the men are still greatly affrighted by the strange phenomenon of yesterday noon. The sun was above us with merciless resolution, and even the spare sails I had ordered rigged above could scarcely keep the murderous heat from our backs. We laboured under great discomfort, and we proceeded without haste. Thus it was, we rounded a corner with unusual slowness, and came upon a great press of canoes. Resolved we would be overwhelmed, none immediately noticed that the canoes were unmanned, and that they drifted together in clumps like leaves fallen from their canopy.

There was no sign of the owners, no sign of tools or weapons. There had been a village not far passed behind us and, given the current, they may have drifted from thence. It was evident that, hiding as they were, the village was still with a sizeable population. Why had the canoes been allowed to drift once left in the water? I ordered two men to drag one up with bill-hooks.

Brought to the starboard, the canoe sloshed heavily, lapped from stem to stern in crimson. The savages had filled the canoes with blood. Beast’s blood, human blood? - I can but guess, but the heat of the overbearing sun had caused a thick layer of scum to form on every native vessel. The congealed layer of blood shifted like skin in the canoe, while the rest swished beneath it.

Overcome with their paranoias and fears, the men wondered at the invisible hordes which lurked behind every tree; they imagined Francisco Dialvo drained by savage tribesmen into one of the canoes, they trembled at the thought the same fate may be intended for them.

They hurled the vessel into the cloudy waters. The very instant the wood met water, the banks erupted with a tide of snakes, pouring forth, plunging into the river, and coming almost as a wave to us. Sunlight glinted from their scales. They appeared alike a treasure tipped into the river. Many several varieties gambolled there, some as long as a few metres, some as thick as a wrist.

This omen, as the men would soon enough call it, confirmed their worst fears, and they doubled all efforts to get our boats free of the place. As our vessels cut our exodus, the snakes churned at the side of the boat, some plunging over the canoes and swimming in the pools of blood in their haste to be at us.

We were gone fast enough.

I am at a loss to explain it. I have never witnessed such a great multitude of vermin congregate and assault in such a fashion. I have little suspicion otherwise that it was any more than the sudden splash of the dropped canoe which disturbed the snakes. I have heard the crew murmuring all kinds of other nonsense.

Snakes are solitary creatures, yet they numbered in the hundreds. Why then had they thus gathered? Had it been the presence of the canoes which had attracted them, laden as they were with blood? And why for had the natives set all their canoes downstream, thus encumbered? Was this some kind of primitive offering? Were they seeking favour, or were they avoiding wrath?

The days are drawing longer still, and the sun hangs from behind a great film of grey ash clouding the skies, somewhere near Oaxcala.
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O-gon-cho
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Post by O-gon-cho »

A Prophet remembers...
The season of mating flights has begun!!

Talayeh/Sio flew on.

Deep in the recesses of their minds, s/he knew the others had flown, and had already been caught. Silly greens! The weyr will profit from her own long flight, and their non-viable clutches will rot wherever they deposit them in the sands of the desert.

S/he was also keenly aware of the males still in pursuit of her. Of the thirty that initially took off after her, they had dwindled to five males. All five strong bronzes.

Four of them had flown before, and had clutches attributed to them in years past. Both the Queen and the Bronze make the clutch, and s/he had heard no complaints of the hatchlings that had emerged from those previous clutches. Any of them would do, but they must catch her first!

The fifth bronze s/he put out of her minds. This was the first mating season The Prophet has flown. And hence, this was his first mating flight. He was strong, yes, but young and inexperienced. Not only will her flying skills befuddle his attempts, but the other males will know of pursuit tricks he has never experienced before. Ah…let her flight be a lesson for him to learn and improve his skills upon.

"Raucous..."

”m’Lady! Not now! I’m…"

"I am very aware of what it happening at the moment, Raucous. Can you not feel my own heat rising in response to our Impression? Open you’re your mind fully to me again, as those others with
riders have done, and let us complete this flight together..."

Our Will be done…”


Back at the weyr, the talk for years afterwards would be of the sudden change in tactics Raucous’ pursuit took on mid-flight. But Talayeh/Sio was unaware. S/he was concentrating on avoiding four other bronzes, so when Raucous flew near s/he planned to easily avoid him. The standard avoidance maneuver: dive as he hovered above her, trying for any hold on her he could get…

What’s this? He rolled beneath her! On to his back with wings fully extended! Necks entwined!!

And as Talayeh and Raucous flew on, back at the weyr Sio became acquainted intimately with a connection to his Dragon’s Mistress…
Raucous shakes his head to clear it. Spring is upon Eiran. He is, after millenia away, once again experiencing the call of his kind, yet he knows of no others to seek out and sate his instinct. These thoughts must be put out of mind.

Yet while the purple swirl of lust fades from his eyes, deep inside the heat of instinct begins to boil his blood...
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Post by Madadeva »

Devaguhya manifests near Elthart in Shaldir! The Lord of Life bows deeply to the forests and sends a greeting of friendship to brother Zephyr and the sentient wood. In his wake, as he walks toward the city, Life is strengthened. Crops revive. His physical presence strengthens the surrounding soil and breaks the cold snap. The Lord of Life enters Elthart and is flocked by the populace. Children walk up to him and touch his form in awe. And with that touch their life is strengthened and disabilities fall away. The Lord of Life spends his first month working to convert the port city.

Elthart is a merchant city, a strong trading port with much business between them and Enstorm and Kunis. It is ruled by a merchant duke, Saltim. Saltim is a large man with rippling muscles more fitting of a blacksmith than a duke. His dark complexion, and ease with ale and rough language have led many competitors to underestimate his intelligence; to their disadvantage. Beneath his massive muscled exterior, there is an intelligence that surpasses most on Eiran. He is well read, and even published (although under a pseudonym). Saltim had heard of the stranger’s appearance in his city. While a few days had passed, Saltim had not moved rashly. His information merchants (spies seems such a crass term) have followed the stranger for the first days of his arrival and their reports are nothing but amazing. Saltim had heard the reports of the Gods returning to Eiran. He had not thought to see one in his own city!! The past season had been trying for Elthart. The unnatural cold had brought an increase in illness and weakness to his population. While his healers had, for the most part, seen to the population; his own daughter Tireela, still lay sick in her bed. The healers did not believe she would outlive the season. As he thought of his daughter, and how powerless he was to help her, this strong man’s eyes moistened. Well, he would see if this God could live up to his reputation!

Devaguhya had been summoned to Saltim’s audience chamber. He seemed amused to have been summoned! As Saltim watched him come into the hall along with the assembled court, he noted the stranger’s easy way about him and the strong aura of Life that was emanated. However, he did not sense any of the arrogance or “air of superiority” he had expected of a deity. Rather the stranger seemed friendly and welcoming. “So, I hear you are a God! Why should I believe such an outrageous tale!?” Saltim demanded. Devaguhya chuckled, “Because you know it to be true. Because you see the truth of it with a sharpness of intellect that many would not observe.” The god paused, and a slight frown, “But I also see such pain in you.” The God, concentrated and his eyes went wide; and then softened with a deep compassion that amazed Saltim. “I see the goodness in you, lord Saltim. And your pain; please bring her to me.” Saltim was startled and before he could control his emotions a single tear fell from his eye. “Can you?” was all he said, and then he gestured for the guard to bring his daughter. When his daughter arrived, the court could see a petite frail 16 yr old girl trying to be brave for her father. She bowed to her father with a formality and strength of character, despite her illness, that broke the hearts of all who observed her pain. Devaguhya fell to his knees and gestured for her to come into his embrace. After an agreeing nod from her father, she complied. As the God embraced her, his wings came into full focus and wrapped around the little girl. There was a gasp from the court and Saltim controlled his urge to rush forward with only the greatest difficulty. A glow radiated from the kneeling god. A feeling of Life and goodness filled the room. And after a minute, when the wings were withdrawn; Tireela stood there, visibly strengthened. She was strong and smiling, the warmth of her joy was plain to all. Devaguhya, patted her shoulder and kissed her forehead. “You, my daughter will be the joy of Shaldir, and are my first Paragon here. The connection in your mind you feel is to your brother and sister Paragon’s and to my prophet AkAza. But you are still young; you will begin your service when your father gives you leave.” He rose to his feet and moved over to Saltim. The duke fell to his knees before the God. “I am yours, command me.” Tears of gratitude were in Saltim’s eyes as Devaguhya spoke. “I command no allegiance that is not freely given, but if you desire it, I will make you senior Paragon for Shaldir. Develop your daughter, for I feel that she will be special, and important to the future of all of Eiran in ways even I cannot see. Do you pledge to me freely? If so, rise to your feet and pledge to me in strength!” The duke rose, and with a look at his smiling daughter, and the rapt court, gazed directly into Devaguhya’s eyes. “I pledge to you freely and with joy in my heart.” The God and Duke grasped each other’s wrists in mutual friendship and respect. And a glow moved from the God and suffused Saltim. The court gasped as they thought they could see ethereal wings spread from the back of the Duke and then the wings were gone.
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Post by Arcadia »

From the journal of Stonemeister Bonifatius Opis:
Day 28. Journey Home

It has been a very long time since I have been able to update my log. Our group has traveled many leagues and are very tired. We have witnessed many changes on Eiran and it is apparent that the gods have indeed returned. All the Nhruuk are drawn by the call of Escalus and we are marching en masse across Eiran to Imray. Our camp has found a restful and welcoming place within a forest on Shaldir to rest for the evening. It is the wish of the Earth Venerant that we notify every possible Nhruuk on Eiran, despite how far out of our way it takes us. She has added weeks onto our long trip. Stonemaster Among allows it, though, sensing an importance for all Nhruuk.

The forest we are in is very strange but it feels as if it looks to succor us of our weariness. It is the most remarkable sensation. The forest is truly lovely and i daresay it has moved us with a deep reverence. But, I get ahead of myself. Let me trace our movements back a few weeks to when we left the desert.

After we met up with the group of Nhruuk, we made our way north toward the Style. The sun was hot but it warmed and hardened our stone skin turning us all the color of the sand. Had it not been for our clothing, I daresay we would have been well camoflauged, so closely we resembled the sand. We saw many strange animals in the desert on one of my students was intent on documenting them. She hopes to add them to her own studies when we reach Imray. We traveled for three days with nothing remarkable to note. The Earth Venerant kept us entertained by stories of the past using the special dirt to enhance her senses and induce a trance. It is a little unnerving to watch but fascinating nonetheless.

On the forth day we came within sight of The Style. What a grand and beautiful sight! A city made entirely of sandstone and brown like the earth itself. It was a city of tall buildings and a high stone wall and had the unusual capacity to appear both new and yet ancient with its brown, dusty facade.

Within the gates we entered a metropolis that was bustling one minute with animals and merchants and dust rising from the ground and the traffic. The scent of exotic spices - cinnamon and pepper - filled the air and mingled with the perfume of the cattle manure. We had entered the market where the colors of the vendors and their wares was distinct against the brown backdrop of the city. Fat, sexy women in blue and red sold their fragrant fruits – apples, grapes, melons, and herbs. The men, sweaty from the heat of the desert haggled loudly with each other, each trying to get the better deal on an ox.

Winding through the marketplace, we turned down a street and found ourselves in a completely different world. This district was studious and quiet – reserved, even. There was no color here but the brown of the stone and dirt. Lovely to the eyes of the Nhruuk.

We drew a great deal of attention from the inhabitants of the style although none immediately approached us. We received curious stares beneath hoods and cloaked figures stopped to peer at us. For the most part though, the inhabitants kept their distance, stopping briefly to stare and then resume their business.

The inhabitants of the city were an interesting looking race. We could not tell if they were human but they were definitely humanoid. They were generally tall and lanky compared to our short and stout look and they wore simple cotton robes some with hoods and some without. As we walked through the streets, we saw a definite progression of classes from the extremely wealthy, if one could tell by the quality and condition of the robes, to the pitifully poor who wore the more tattered and faded cotton robes that had been repaired several times. This oddly seemed to be the norm of the city and no one appeared to mind their status – or change it. We were not bothered by the poor begging for food. It seemed as if it may have been rude of them to even consider it.

As we walked further into the city we noticed that we had entered a scholastic distrct of sorts. We saw schools and universities as well as conservatories within this diverse hub of knowledge. Hooded figures stood in groups within the court and the discussions sounded like debates (for we could not understand the language) were occurring all around us. Stonemaster Among was able to pick up a word here and there and came to the conclusion that they were discussing science or theology. He listened carefully and said they were discussing something about a void - no, The Void. The debate seemed to range from The Void being a presence and being a thing.

But, abruptly the discussion stopped as as they realized Among intently listening. They turned slowly and approached us.

I fear I must stop here. The forest is lulling me into a deep restfulness and i cannot remain awake for much longer. The forest is singing to me an odd song of welcome. And yearning.....?
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. There is no fear in love; for perfect love cast out fear.
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Eugen Razvan
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Post by Eugen Razvan »

The Tree of Vhukuth stood atop a blasted, rocky hill. A dying wind soughed through the decaying limbs and branches, the clammy and dripping pale moss shifting slightly as though the tree was making dying gestures. At the base, the heavy roots began to rip out of the earth, and the sap started to seep out of the giant tree's base like blood pouring from a dying man's mouth.

Wrapped around the tree was an immense black worm covered in thousands of gnashing and chattering mouths and seeping pores.

Nor Yekith released his grip on the Tree of Vhukuth and slithered down the trunk, careful not to tip the dying tree over. Around the tree, thousands of Kothiqs - translucent, flying reptiles - screeched in terror and flapped madly from their creator and god. Some of them were either too slow or caught in rapture to escape and were crushed under the weight of the titanic worm. The Tree rocked slowly and came to rest at an unnatural angle, dripping cold sap and steaming mutagens.

Nor Yekith began slithering down the hill towards the twisted city of Nor Nrenth. Words vomited out of his many mouths, full of spite. "This world is done. I am finished with it." The god tried to make the tone of his words reflect pride and success, but deep inside he only felt emptiness. "I have engineered a utopia, despite the work of the other god."

In the distance, a ravaged castle lay in ruins at the center of a lake. Its remaining tower thrust into the purple-green sky like the dying Tree. At its broken pinnacle the corpse of a mighty warrior, Ghadian the god of Truth, was crucified to the stone. Great, cancerous polyps - Ushurgs - were growing from the dead god's body. Below him, too numerous to count, were the god's last followers, crucified like their god with their bodies being corrupted and infested by more Ushurgs.

After fleeing Eiran, Nor Yekith found this world. It was guarded by Ghadian and his cult of warrior-scribes. Following centuries of learned discourse and study, the thousands of city states had united into an almost world-wide society. However, instead of presenting a unified and defensible front to the god of malice and mutation, the world-nation was remarkably easy to conquer. Peace had made the people content, and they had only known of Ghadian's learned ways; they had never imagined that another god existed, much less one that could manipulate flesh.

A year later, Nor Yekith had converted an entire continent into a vast plain of womb-pits, so that it resembled some parasite-infested, distorted beast. The mountains were covered in swaying, fleshy plants, the rivers thickened with flesh-fluid, and the valleys and swamps populated by headless herds of slaves and cattle. Within weeks, the god of mutation was able to birth a vast army of malice-born beasts.

Six months later, the spawned force flooded the remaining continents, smashing aside defenses, absorbing the populations, devouring forests, and polluting the land with mutagens. Thus, like a hungry necrosis spreading across a body, Nor Yekith's children swarmed over the lands and reduced it into black insanity. Eventually, all that was left was a piteous and sickening pall of a land.

Nothing stood apart from the god's hideous utopia. Nothing cried, for nothing was given the means or the will to cry. Not one individual begged for pity, for everything that remained was engineered into mindless servants or pulsing organs shuddering where mountains once stood.

Nor Yekith should have felt elated that he had won. An entire world had been made into his paradise, yet he found it unremarkable. He found it empty.

Weeks or years passed, Nor Yekith was not sure. He spent every moment staring at the body of Ghadian. The sky alternated between the garish purple of day and the black of night. A distant star flickered each night above the shattered tower. Eiran's star.

Nor Yekith remembered.

Bhakti, Simjen, Vadhaka, Queeaqueg, O-Gon-Cho, Jove . . . the names of his foes seethed in the god's mind.

This world was remade, not because he could do it - he was sure he could do it to any world - but because he had to direct his anguish and rage at a world. Thus, the pain of losing against the gods of Eiran fueled his urge to show mastery of flesh and stone and wood. But it was not enough.

Ghadian was not enough.

Nor Yekith yearned to shatter or corrupt those who attempted to stop his plans for utopia. Yet, whenever he stared at Eiran's star he knew he was too late; the Second Age was gone. The gods had left the world of were destroyed. There was no way he would ever bring that pantheon to its knees.

Centuries passed bleakly while Nor Yekith stalked his memories. At times, something like grief or regret filled him, and he would lash out at the world and remake it - punishing his creations with more distorted forms. But nothing would cry or beg, which only made his attempts to placate himself all the more empty. Then one night he felt a presence. Far away, in the heavens where the gods of old drifted, an old foe could be felt.

The God of Smiths . . .

Nor Yekith altered his form, becoming a torrent of purple light and black lightning, erupting into the seething sky and bleeding into the heavens beyond.

He would battle Simjen, if only to prove that he could.

If only to help him alleviate the pain of fleeing Eiran . . .
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Eugen Razvan
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Post by Eugen Razvan »

The priest's guard pushed ahead, their torches lighting up the tunnel. Behind them, the Honoured Noryek crept along as he could in the faded light. His long fingertips stroking the corroded stone walls, feeling the verdigris with reverence. Translucent veins hung from the ceiling, waving gently in the tunnel's breeze. The air was humid and had an acrid taste.

The tunnel opened into a large chamber. The guards spread out, their torches lighting up the stomach-shaped room and the ring of grotesque statues. Each stone figure was covered in a black slime that seemed to slowly eat away at the stonework; the detail had been corroded away leaving only pitted stone - much like the tunnel walls. At the centre of the chamber was a raised dais, like a miniature ziggurat. Lying atop was a pregnant woman, her belly greatly bulging and quivering, covered in a network of black and purple veins. She was fully pregnant, and it appeared that she was almost ready to give birth. Purple and black fluid poured from between her legs, dripping down the ziggurat's tiny stairs and on to the decaying stone floor.

The priest dropped to his knees as soon as he saw the woman. In reaction, the guards stepped back. Some drew out their blades, other cursed aloud. The head of the mercenaries turned to face the Honoured Noryek.

"What is it that you have brought us to?" he asked with anger and fear in his voice. "You said you needed blades to protect you from grave robbers. I doubt they will do much good against that magic." He gestured towards the woman the same time as she moaned aloud.

The Honoured Noryek smiled softly in the faded light. "Aye, I asked for blades, but I did not really need your metal. The Smith can have your metal for all I care. My god needs your bodies/

"Behold!"

The woman screeched in pain, although to the priest's ears it sound like the release of an apotheosis of pleasure. She spread her legs wider as her belly quivered unnaturally. Foul black fluid poured from between her legs, burning into one side of the ziggurat. Smoke started to fill the air and the guards began to retreat to the tunnel.

"When my Master fled this world he said four words to Melirelle, Goddess of Wombs. He said no other words; not a word to Thinsilwil, nor to his Yekiths, nor to the King. He spoke to Melirelle alone. He said to her, 'The line must remain'. Many of her worshipers spent decades attempting to work out what he meant. None had any idea of the meaning of my God's words.

"But now you see. He meant for the bloodline of the King to remain pure. For the eventuality that one day, a female would be ready for His seed. For a female to be ready to sacrifice her womb and her life to give birth to Him. How lucky we are that despite Melirelle's worshipers failing to understand and protect the line that the King's descendants would be alive today."

The woman shuddered violently, and a ghastly, almost animal-like scream tore through her lungs and shattered the air of the chamber. Seconds later, her body slip open from her groin to her chest. Black fluid erupted from her body and sprayed the mercenaries and the priest, searing into their skin, clothes and armour. Everyone but the priest collapsed to the floor.

The Honoured Noryek placed his legs together and his arms beside his body, ready for the transformation into a Yekith. A large black, glistening worm began to rise from the remains of the woman.

"Our Master gifts you all with forced mutation. Nor Yekith has returned to Eiran!"
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Eztlicoatl
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Post by Eztlicoatl »

Captain’s Log, the Spirit of Fortune

Spring, Jungle of Malyth

The crew are terribly afraid, and have come in private to petition me to assume authority over the expedition, and to order an immediate return homeward.

Though it may condemn some to trial on return, I must make an official entry into the log, so as to avoid any future accusations of inciting mutiny.

Our leader has, of late, fallen seriously ill from fever. As of yet, none other has been afflicted. A small mercy in this terrible place. Mercuse collapsed while standing by the helm of the Spirit, under the blazing heat of the noon day sun. We had erected spare sails as cover from the sun, which has glowed doubly fierce in the last few days. Noon is torture to be on deck, unless we stand beneath the shade.

At first it were as though death would take our learned master, but he did come through the worst of it, though he ranted and raved all manner of incoherent nonsense. His fever did break, and he regained a little of his better strengths. His first demand was to be brought upon deck, so that he could know for certain whether the sun still shone. Against the physician’s recommendation, we did as ordered. Our leader spent the next few hours staring from around a shaded cloth at the sun. He seemed pleased, though distant.

While di Montressor was indisposed with fever, several of the crew – including some of the no-good vagabonds who had plotted previously to escape under cover of darkness – approached me to intercede and have the ships turned about. There is a growing malaise, and a feeling amongst the crew of both ships that we are encroaching closer and closer to the hour of our doom. The men are half mad themselves, and they claim snakes and demons under near every bush we pass on the riverbanks. Some think we are being shadowed by men; some think we are followed by worse.

I have refused supporting any notions of mutiny. In any case, our leader seems aware there has been some plotting. This morning, he drew me aside with his weakened arms - which hang otherwise by his side as he reclines on deck - and he whispered that the Duke would have any mutineers hanged, but that there were now worse fates to be feared than the Duke’s wrath.

I am not without concern for the health or the mind of the great explorer. Yet, he is a rational man. Though he sits all day upon the deck, translating an old codex of the savages hereabouts, and though he idles much time by staring at the sun, he is still strong-willed enough to direct the actions of every man on board. His mental vigour, despite his now withdrawn and distant demeanour, seems more driven than ever.

We shall go onward, and follow to where he leads us.
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The Void
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Post by The Void »

CRACK

The map stand rocked as Grand Marshal Nevistals fist broke through its boards.

"They did WHAT?!? Those pathetic excuse for creatures DID WHAT? Stupid inbred filth. Those shikseh orcs!"

Clearing his throat, Ahmed shifted uncomfortably. Nevistal was a true monster when he was in these moods.

"Thats not all lord. They have also declared a crusade on the new city."

Nevistal paced across the small room to look out of the window over the city.

"Casualty report?' He was getting a head ache and started rubbing his temples.

"Some several dozen M'lord."

"And what of Him?" The Marshal enquired.

"The Scholar lives my lord."

Letting out a deep sigh Nevistals shoulders dropped. He turned to look at Ahmed, his finest assassin,bounty hunter and spy.

"This could have been much worse. We will send a large force to the city to prepare for its defense. I want you to find all the orcs that live in and near the city. Justice must be done. If we ever needed proof that Humans have managed to evolve to include dung and slugs into their life blood, this is it."

standing to attention, Ahmed saluted. "And what of Enlightenment lord?"

"Let those Void Theorists have their city." Nevistal waved a hand of dismissal.

After the assassin had left, the Grand Marshal sat down. Orcs and false gods. What would be next? Belief was a powerfully dangerous thing, and he knew that it must be stopped at the root of its cause.

Outside his window, the city of The Stile buzzed with a healthy life of peaceful non belief.
speak ov it not as one
speak ov it not as none
speak ov it not at all
for its continual
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Unzen
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Post by Unzen »

“The Hand of the Daimyo will see you now.”

With that, Turniz was ushered into the Chamber of the Return, the working quarters of the Way to the Bridge, the temple of the god Unzen. Seated at a table scanning documents was Marzon, the Hand of the Daimyo of Unzen. Seeing Turniz enter, Marzon quickly arose from his chair and greeted the older Orc in the ancient manner.

“There have been many rumors, Turniz, about the mission to Olvir”, said Marzon while pouring a pair of cups of spiced wine. He gave one to Turniz.“You were there. Give me the details.”

Turniz gave silent thanks, took a sip of the fragrant wine and began.

“Our band went north, Hand, carried forward in our mission with joyous hearts by the words of encouragement given us by the Daimyo himself. Soon though, we had heard rumors along the route of the faithless ones; that they were also approaching Olvir. But we gave them no heed. We entered into the city and began our work. We found willing ears for the message of the Lord of the Bridge.”

“The Lord of the Bridge feeds us all with his spirit”, Marzon said.

Turniz took another sip.

“Aye, he does”, continued Turniz. “Well, the faithless ones had also entered Olvir. At first we paid them no heed and continued with our mission, but they, fearful of the message of the Lord of the Bridge, and knowing that we would win the city’s heart; contrived to provoke a confrontation.”

“They could not stand the comparison of their false knowledge with the truth”, Marzon muttered angrily.

“Aye, the faithless ones pride themselves on their book learning, but they underestimated the resourcefulness of our band of preachers. Quickly, the city was in a tumult; the faithful battling the faithless. For a time, we had the upper hand, and nearly drove them from the city, but they called upon the support of one they called “the Scholar”. Mighty he might have been, but yet, even with that one’s aid we nearly carried the day. If the Daimyo had been there, I’m sure we’d have been gazing on this "Scholar’s" head on a pike…”

“The Daimyo had another mission, my friend”, Marzon said quietly. “Go on.”

“Without his support, and with the interference of the Scholar, the situation gradually became grave. We decided to leave Olvir. Yet, the great Lord be praised, a great number of people from Olvir decided to leave with us!”, Turniz exclaimed with wonder in his voice. “They had seen the truth through the false words of the faithless. In a great procession, we and they left, though it burns my heart to have to leave that city to the faithless ones!”

“You did what you could do.”

“Upon our return, we came upon some of the kindred clans. They became enraged when they saw our procession, and have sworn vengeance upon the faithless; they seek to cleanse Olvir of the foul touch of the Scholar and his ilk.”

Turniz drained his cup.

“Though my heart desired to join them, I knew that I had to come ahead of the band to bring the story to the Daiymo.”, Turniz exclaimed.

“And Varmor will see you, Turniz. He is awaiting in his chambers and will see you presently.”

Marzon rang a bell. A guard in armor opened the door.

“Send word to the Daimyo that the first of the preachers awaits his call”, Marzon spoke.

The guard disappeared behind the door momentarily. Returning the guard motioned to Turniz.

“The Daiymo will see you now”, the guard called.

Turniz walked to the door. Before he departed, Marzon called to him.

“One last thing.”

“Yes, Hand”, Turniz replied, looking back.

“Was your other mission completed in Olvir?”

“Yes, Hand.”

“Thank you.”
Nou aru taka wa tsume wo kakusu
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Post by Eugen Razvan »

The city of Aytham was almost completely silent. The only sound that could be heard was that of the thudding of Abomination's Heart. The pulsing, blue-grey organ hovered above the quiet city, lit up in the lurid red light of the thousands of glowing veins that draped over the city like some immense blood-red spider's web. At the centre, the web twisted into a single, thick blood vessel that connected to the base of the citadel-sized heart. Each time the lower chambers of the heart squeezed inwards the veins would swell and thousands of smaller veins would branch off and grow. For several days, the heart was pumping the glowing blood into the webwork, causing it to slowly smother the city and extend into the surrounding landscape. Everything the web touched shimmered and melted - but without any heat. Stone melted like max, wood liquefied into sap, and flesh and bone became cancerous and soft.

In this way, Aytham was remade. Perfected. Where streets once stood, there were now tunnels and rivers, the buildings had turned into stone monstrosities - nightmarish and alien effigies of the Worm God, and the inhabitants (those that were not reduced into liquid meat that flowed in the rivers of flesh) had lost their limbs and heads, becoming Yekiths. Deep pits were being dug into the outskirts of the twisted city, and filled with a gelatinous substance. Tiny polyps and worms floated in the thick substance, merging and multiplying as they formed the structure of the Womb Pits.

Beneath Abomination's Heart was a ziggurat. At the apex of the stone pyramid, bathed in the bloody light, a single crucifix stood. Hulking conglomerations of man and wood could be seen pulling down the body of a naked figure. The body had not been mutated, for it had a perfectly muscled physique - a warrior's body.

From the floating heart, a contemptuous, smooth voice issued. "Had I known what Lord Adamorn's face looked like, I would have adjusted the bone structure, flesh and fat. Although I am sure that the likeness is close. The warrior fought on to the end, valiantly and vainly - no doubt how Adamorn would have. Throw the body into the flesh rivers. Bring me the next to die."

The hulking flesh and wood beasts pulled a screaming youth from a pit. Like the warrior, he was untouched. The mocking voice continued. "I never saw Zephyr . . . I . . . failed to find him. This figure will do."

The beasts dragged the youth to the crucifix. "You will be henceforth known as Zephyr, son of Bhakti. In name, if not in spirit, you are guilty of conspiring to halt my utopia project, and for that crime . . . for that sin . . . you will be sentenced to death. Entkas, nail Zephyr to the cross."

The youth was brutally thrust against the wooden structure, arms forced out horizontally by misshapen wooden hands. Screaming, the boy fought with his body and spirit. When the hammer and nails were brought near him, he screamed "Mother!" and collapsed in exhaustion and futility.

The Entkas stopped. Nothing spoke, and the air was still. The heart slowed down, and the crimson light from the veins began to fade. It seemed as though the presence in the heart had too began to fade.

"Ahhhh, you are not Zephyr," the smooth voice said sadly. "You could never be Bhakti's son. Neither will the other prisoners die as the Gods of the Second Age.

"You are pardoned. Release the boy and the other prisoners. Let them leave my city untouched."

As the shaken prisoners stumbled out of Aytham, Nor Yekith's mind focused on the night sky, remembering a stone tower and a crucified god named Ghadian.

Abomination's Heart ceased thudding, and silence drowned the city.
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Bel
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Post by Bel »

"In the name of the Great God, I have brought you Peace!" The Prophet raised up his arms and spread his wings as he proclaimed his Lord's will for all to hear. He strode down the centre of the street, tall buildings on either side of him. "Give yourselves into the grace of the Great Lord, and he will teach you to walk the true path!" Unlike the others who had followed him here, he bore no weapon. He wore no armour. He walked alone and unprotected through Noruk, City, now, of Peace.
Ahead of him were men armed and armoured, blades drawn to face his advance. The City Guard.
"Abandon the ways of violence, for they are futile. Harm not, for you harm yourselves." He ceased his march within reach of their swords, yet the blades remained still. He lowered his gaze from the heavens and looked into the eyes of the man directly before him. "You wish to strike me," he said in quiet tones, "but you cannot." He reached out his hand and grasped the man's sword by its blade. His fellows backed away from the pair, their weapons lowering as they realised their impotence. "You will strike no blows within this city. And no blow will strike you. The Great Lord has chosen to save you from yourselves. Release your weapon, and accept your salvation." A small sigh escaping his lips, the guard's hand relaxed. ul-zakaru threw the sword to the ground. Raising his voice once more, he called to the other men, "Lay down your weapons. You have no need of them." One by one, the men let their blades fall to the floor.
The guard facing him had fallen to his knees. Smiling, the Prophet placed his hand atop the former guard's head. "The Lord of Peace protects you now."
Leaving them in their places, stunned, ul-zakaru raised his limbs once more, and continued his march along the street.
Si vis pacem, para bellum
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Post by Unzen »

An excerpt from The Recollections of Marzon, Hand of Varmor to Timuz:
Marzon looked out on the square where a large group had gathered. He recognized the banners of other Orc clans, the gold dagger on a blue field of the Scrazt, the yellow sword on a red field for the Magror, the silver eye on green of the Dargen, among other clans. Orcs from far and wide in Enstorm had gathered. On the platform fluttered a banner he did not recognize; not the green field with a white field lined with red in the midst of which was a great horn of gold.

As Marzon and his companions entered the square to the sound of a chattering din. “What god summons us?” “ Who is Varmor to speak for a god?”

The sound of a great horn ended the noise. The square, filled with Orcs and the curious, watched as a figure dressed in full Orc armor including battle mask stepped forward on the platform beside the banner of the horn.

Slowly, the orc in armor removed his mask. The face revealed looked slightly… different. Somewhat pale, not ruddy as one might expect. The eyes had a strange intense focus.

The only sound heard was the sighing of the wind as the crowd gazed silently, as though spell bound, upon the figure.

“Clansorcs, the gods have returned to Eiren”, Varmor exclaimed in a great voice, “and I am here to tell of a holy mission for the god who summoned me! The dead call to us across the eternal bridge to redress the wrongs done to Eiren. They call the present state an abomination that must be ended. I have crossed the bridge that separates the living from the dead. I have crossed back over. I am now dead, yet I walk and speak among the living!”

Shock, fear, dismay and doubt raced on the faces assembled like racing clouds.

“I come to speak of the far side. The place where the dead go”, Varmor yelled.

“How do we know that what you speak is true!”, some one shouted in the crowd.

“You!”. Varmor pointed a long finger at Marzon. “You come up here beside me!”

Marzon came up upon the platform. Those intense eyes of Varmor watching.

“Feel my arm.” Varmor said.

The arm was cold to Marzon’s touch. “It’s cold.” he said.

“That’s right”, said Varmor. “It’s cold. That’s because I am no longer among the living, I straddle two existences. Those on the other side pray that Eiren be redeemed. Unzen, the god of the bridge that separates life from death has heard that prayer and has come to redeem the world from its troubles. Death need not be a hinderance. The dead will re-cross the bridge and join us. Unzen will need the living and the dead returned to achieve his task. Together, we will redeem Eiren!”

At that point, it seemed like a flash of a vision went through the crowd. A vision of a god, dressed in samurai armor, sounding a horn leading an army of both the dead and the living to redeem Eiren. There was no revulsion at the thinking of fighting beside the dead, but comprehension.
Nou aru taka wa tsume wo kakusu
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Post by uKulwa »

The Igazi Isiphuzi
The stories say that they come for you in the night. That you go to sleep in your hut with your comrades, and that you awaken blind and suffocating in the dark, surrounded by the warrior-fanatics of uKulwa. That strange herbs burn, bringing you visions, and that you will become drunk on the blood of the enemies of God.

The Igazi Isiphuzi, the Blood Drunkards…fanatics who kill or die with equal fervour, determined to serve God in this world and the next. They say that if you have family, you must kill them in initiation…that you may have no family but God and the King. They say that you are forced to eat the living eyes of a prisoner, sucked from his screaming skull, they say…they say many things. But nobody knows…For the Igazi Isiphuzi, there is only service or death.

The Prophet-King may unleash them…but none save God may reign them in. Their war-cry is that of the King: Si-gi-di! One Thousand! For every man is the equal of a regiment on the battlefield.

Of themselves, they say only: “Judge us not by our numbers, but by the numbers of the dead we leave behind us.”

They are the dreaded. The elite. The men with no ties. With no goals. With no ambition.

Except to wash their spears in the blood of the enemies of God.

-–Fireside Tales
All Things Begin and End in Strife.
------------------------------------
Msasi Haogopi Mwiba.

The Hunter Does Not Fear Thorns
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Eztlicoatl
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Post by Eztlicoatl »

Shadows twisted and writhed like serpents, dancing wildly across the Spirit of Fortune and her crew. Illumined through the sails, men’s silhouettes loomed and curled - giant skeletons and ghouls stalking wherever light threw them. The River Spear cracked and burnt, beams popped and hissed, the whole boat raged in flames. Her crew stood with the Spirit’s, watching the River Spear consumed in a rage of fire.

The flames from the burning vessel shot skyward. Cinders leapt from her and trailed into the darkness beyond. The din of the jungle was, for once, deadened by the sound of the Spear being consigned to a watery oblivion.

The captain of the Spear swayed from a beam of the Spirit, his lifeless legs turning this way then that. His face was purple and his eyes bulged. His tongue lolled from side to side, foam still dripping from it. Below him, stood the great explorer, Mercuse di Montressor.

“It’ll be his death before dawn,” Angelmo whispered to Mendez. “He’s completely mad. It’ll be his death, or it’ll be ours”.

The explorer was guarded on either side by three soldiers, loyal to the Duke, and even more so loyal to Mercuse. They were armed with crossbows, and they eyed the darkened faces of the sailors with suspicion. In their turn, the sailors eyed the soldiers. Some held knives, secreted away for the present, ready to use them should just one man be bold enough to rush their leader and end the insanity of the voyage.

“That is the Duke’s will,” Mercuse cast a glance up at Captain Hernan’s swinging corpse. “The Duke has imparted full legal authority to me in the prosecution of this voyage. Captain Hernan was conspiring to mutiny, and to turn the River Spear back upstream”. The explorer cast a reed thin arm toward the captain. “The penalty for mutiny!”

Mendez breathed nervously through his nose. He leant to Angelmo, “his death, Angelmo, his”.

The explorer grew silent. He arched his back and studied the gleam of dozens of eyes from the darkened deck. Light and shadow played across them though, to the crew, Mercuse was little more distinguishable than a gaunt silhouette. A small chest was at his feet – he had had it brought on deck ten minutes ago, just before Captain Hernan was hanged. Crouching now to the chest, the explorer opened it, and drew something from within which stunned the terrified hearts of the sailors. He held it aloft. The flames of the Spear glinted off its gold surface. Slowly, with deliberate emphasis, Mercuse drew the object over his head. It was a mask of pure gold. Covering his head from the nose up, there were two holes in the mask for his eyes; the brow curved back into a great golden disk – an image of the resplendent sun.

Awe mingled with fear, hate mingled with lust. Every eye that beheld the golden sun mask was murky with greed. “By Anaya’s sacred ti-” Mendez was hushed by Angelmo, his thoughts of vengeance already being replaced with dreams of riches.

Scanning the crew from side to side, the masked head of the explorer thinly smiled. “There is more, so much more,” he said. “Oaxcala is no more than a vine-riddled den, and its people backward and superstitious. I have seen much gold there. Rooms whose doors are inlaid with it; old streets whose cobbles are held fast with it; men and women who mutely wear charms to creatures of the wild – charms fashioned from purest gold! Look!” the explorer upended the chest with a foot, sending golden trinkets and amulets cascading across the deck; the lustre of the gold shone in the light of the flames, though the glint of greed burnt brighter in the eyes of the men. The crew scrambled for the trinkets.

“None take more than their share,” Mercuse commanded. “There is enough for all. And this is just a small sample. Oaxcala overflows with wealth. Everyone one of us can return from there wealthy enough to buy lands and titles from the Duke. The people at the city are so weak; we could make ourselves their rulers”.

While their leader spoke, the sailors jostled frantically for their share.

“Go! Return home if you haven’t the stomach to make yourselves kings! Make your own rafts and sail for home. I shan’t stop you. But the Spirit stays here. Tomorrow, all who are bold enough to follow come with me into the jungle. We are a few weeks from the lost city. A few weeks from our fortune. Have the hearts and the resolve to act like men instead of superstitious cowards! Have the courage to follow me, and we shall fill the Spirit to the brim with gold.

“Or leave, if you have not these qualities. Leave! Leave with your lives and make your way home. One day, when you have broken your backs labouring enough at sea, and you regale your children with tales, while crouched about a fire in your hovel; one day, tell them how you almost came to Oaxcala. How you left with your life, while others plunged at risk for a fortune in gold. Tell them this. Tell them, and try your best to sound wise, while you watch an old crew mate who had the spine to stay with me – watch him ride by on a charger, with his retinue eating his dust – and tell your children you loved gold, but not nearly as much as you feared a clutch of snakes and a bright sunny day!”

The sailors laughed and cursed, some pushed violently at one another. Above, the corpse of Captain Hernan oversaw the corruption of the men below. Had his eyes life, they may have bulged all the wider at the horror and shame of it. The River Spear began to sink beneath the water, its belly breaking and tearing.

Mercuse watched how quickly he had bribed his would-be murderers with detachment. His head ached now. He could no longer stand the dark of night, or the chill which came with it. His own apprehensions were alleviated more and more, as the sun shone for the greater part of the day now. It seemed right that it should be thus, and the explorer allowed himself to smile, somehow knowing that something both terrible and beautiful awaited him in Oaxcala.
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The Void
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Post by The Void »

Warning, post contains graphic violence that some my find offensive. If you dont like that sorta stuff, DONT READ IT. You have been warned, so no bitching about it later.

The sun blasted down onto the square as the crowds gathered around the platform of enlightenment. The platform was built on the edge of the Pit of the Void, a pit so deep it was said to be bottomless. Its deep blackness was a stark contrast to the bright sun shining down on the sandstone walls of the buildings lining the square.

The heretic was dragged into the square. The crowd bayed and hissed as he was pulled through them. Soon they lost control, throwing rocks and kicking out at him. Dreutos was a middle aged priest who had come to this new city to bring his chosen god to the people. He had made the fatal mistake to think a city named Enlightenment would welcome his ilk. Now he struggled to keep his head up as rocks and blows rained upon him.

His big brutish guards dragged him through the flocks of people. He looked up at the platform and saw a truly horrifying figure. Tall and gaunt, dressed head to toe in long flowing black robes, with a black and blue headdress wrapped around his head. The figure was no less than six foot tall and his eyes, the only facial feature visible, were full of pure unfiltered hatred.

The figure pointed at Dreutos. “This misguided fool is guilty of the most heinous of crimes in our fair city of Enlightenment! The gullible idiot worships gods!”

The crowd hissed and roared in equal measure. Some laughed at the preacher’s misguided views, others howled for his blood. As the preacher was brought forth and thrown down before the figure, they were silenced as the figure raised his arms into the air.

“Not only that, but he did the capitol offense of preaching to us of his gods! How dare He! Such a terrible crime must go punished!” With a motion of his hand, the figure ordered the men holding Dreutos to place him down on a bench erected on the platform. “And what is our punishment? He is to be rid of the ability to speak! Is this a just and true punishment?”

The crowd erupted in approval. The gaunt figure had them well and truly under the control of his gravely voice. For the first time, Dreutos struggled to try and break free of his captors. The two big men held him down firmly The figure leaned over him, blocking out the sun that blinded him.

He looked into its eyes, and for the first time since his birth he felt like he was looking into eternity. The eyes seemed old, older than any he had seen before. The pale grey iris’s seemed odd. Never before had the old man looked into such eyes, and never before had he been so afraid.

“Hold still filth” The figure hissed as he grabbed Dreutos’s face, and brandished a wicked curved knife. Glinting in the sun, the stains of previous “Enlightenments” were visible upon the plain blade.

The figure tried to force his fingers into the preacher’s mouth to pry it open, but the old man bit down upon them hard. The figure lurched back shocked, then struck down hard upon the mans face. Again Dreutos was surprised, the figure contained great strength for someone so seemly gaunt and weak. Dazed, his lolled back and he felt his mouth being forced open.

The figure struggled to get a grip of his tongue, but soon gave a grunt of delight when he did. Pinching the tongue to stretch it out, he shoved the sharp knife down into the preacher’s mouth and started to hack at his tongue. Dreutos started to scream in pain, but it was too late, his tongue was gone. He started to choke as his mouth filled with blood. Jerked upright, he saw the figure holding the tongue out victoriously to the crowd. His chin and chest grew wet with blood as he spluttered for breath.

“So this man has paid the price for his crimes! Now, he shall be reeducated to truly understand the void! First he shall be rid of all his possessions, to truly have nothing!”


The brutes holding him began ripping off Dreutos’s robes. They then yanked on the pendant around his neck until it snapped off and his neck was raw and torn. Soon he stood there, humiliated, covered by nothing but the blood from his mouth. Standing there, naked and choking in the sun, he lost whatever little dignity he had left.

The crowd cheered and screamed, throwing rocks and other debris at the preacher until silenced by the figure. “Now, for the final part of our reeducation, he shall be forced to see the Void.” He turned to face Dreutos “You shall be lucky enough to look upon The Void with your own eyes.”

Druetos was lead across to the edge of the platform, next to the deep dark pit. Standing there were two posts with ropes hanging from them. These ropes were tied around his wrists, but left to hang slack.

He was left to stand there, on the edge of a deep dark hole that seemed to bore its way down into very earth itself.

“This man has committed the foulest of crimes! However he has been redeemed. And now, he shall have the ultimate prize! He shall get to look unto the very void itself!”

Then the figure spun around, his knife flashing in the sun as it slashed its way across the mans Achilles Tendons. And audible snap was heard as the tendons gave way and Dreutos fell forward, headed face first towards the bottomless pit, then the jerk as the ropes went taut.

And there he was, suspended above the pit, held aloft by the ropes attached to his now numb arms. His feet were still firmly planted upon the platform, but his ankles bent at an unnatural angle. He screamed a dull shapeless scream, lacking a tongue to shape his cries.

Parallel to the earth, suspended in the air, Dreutos was staring directly into the void of the bottomless pit.

Behind him the crowd cheered. He could hear the figure winding them into frenzy. “So now he can view the truth! He has achieved more than many others on this earth! And yet he has more still to achieve! Shall we make him meet the void?”

The crowd was wild now. Druetos could hear them chanting. But he had lost the will to carry on any more. Lying there above the pit he realized that the chance to fall into the abyss below and truly end everything was far better than the life he would lead if allowed to survive. Above the dark hole, the preacher was broken.

He didn’t see the motion the figure gave, or the two brutes cutting his ropes free. He didn’t see the crowd cheer in glee as he fell, tattered, torn and bloody, as ropes and feet flapped around uncontrollably behind him, as he plummeted down the dark hole. He didn’t scream, he didn’t cry in pain, he just fell in a trance like state, ready to accept whatever awaited him in the pit as he fell away from the reality of existence.

The figure looked down the hole as the preacher vanished into the abyss. Behind him the crowd was wild. He turned to the brute next to him.

“It is done Veshp. Bring forth the orc and let the activities continue.”
speak ov it not as one
speak ov it not as none
speak ov it not at all
for its continual
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Cryak
Giantfriend
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Post by Cryak »

page 137
I've come a long way from home. Mathan is just as amazing as I heard when I was a child. The smell of fish is almost overwhelming near the ports, but further uphill, and my nostrils are attacked by a plethora of new sights. Exotic and rare, common and horrible, all mix together into a new smell, city.

I sit at a small table on the main thoroughfare. A cup of coffee sits in front of me, bitter and black. It is a new drink, and entirely disgusting. Momoe seems to love it. He drinks with relish across from me, as he proceeds to demolish my defenses. I move a rook to counter, and look back to the streets.

Old maids with bonnets walk next to swarthy shipmates. A small child runs a hoop down the street, dodging both animals and carts. A man in glasses walks by, holding a satchel for his life. A hugely tall woman sprints past swinging a bat in her hands. A dog barks. A man in robes drops a box, and coins go spilling out of it. Immediately a crowd gathers to pilfer as much as possible before the city watch steps in. I make eye contact with the man and give a sympathetic look before he dives into to the fray to save his money. Steam rises from the restaurant behind us; I can almost taste our meal I am so hungry.

Momoe's voice returns me to the game. My rook is gone, and he has position. I am now fighting an uphill battle.
From a single Acorn, a mighty Oak
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Arcadia
Bloodguard
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Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2007 1:25 am

Post by Arcadia »

Stonemeister Bonifateus Log (continued)
I find time again to complete my log. The forest does indeed provide us rest and I feel a strong urge to remain here. But, I must continue....

As I had written, The Styles was an interesting sight to see. Hot, dusty desert streets. The scholars approached us and Among, with a cautioning hand on my arm, stepped forward and bowed in greeting. The scholars paused a moment as if to assess our presence and then bowed in return but looked down upon us even though we generally met their same height. They could not mask their amusement when Among attempted to speak their language, thoroughly butchering the words.

With a brief snort, one of the scholars looked Among up and down with condescension but responded in the common tongue, accepting our greeting. Among dispensed with small talk and immediately told them of our studies of the earth by the abyss. Instantly, eyebrows rose under the shemagh they wore and they became highly interested in our work, their eyes sharpening at the news. We resaerchers were welcomed into the enclosure of the university to share our findings and we accepted. But not before Among turned to the Earth Venerant and in our own tongue that sounds like snarls and grunts to outsiders, cautioned her to keep the group together and to speak to no one. He had recognized the followers of the Void and had heard stories of their community rules. He cautioned her to follow the rules of the city to the letter but the Earth Venerant opted to leave the city altogether with the rest of the group and await us in the forest north of the city. Feeling that our group was safe, we felt free to talk with the scholars.

We spent days discussing our knowledge of the earth. The scholars were very gracious and inquisitive, listening intently and asking questions to further their knowledge. Among was in his element with an audience who hung on his every word. We showed them our notes on the earth layers and movements and they began immediately doing formulas to estimate the depths of each layer, the pressure of the earth, and the estimates of the mineral compositions. Their formulations were far more accurate than ours and a few of my students excitedly learned the calculations from the scholars who were happy to share their knowledge.

We spent seven days cloistered within the university discussing, teaching, learning, and debating the earth with our hosts. Overall, it was a beneficial experience and I believe all involved learned something new. We made our way out of the city, laden with supplies from our generous hosts and an invitation to return for more studies. Jolly good fellows they were but I would not want to be their enemy.
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. There is no fear in love; for perfect love cast out fear.
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