Navarre

Rising Storm of the Righteous

From atop the Vault of Heavens his unseeing vision swept the width and bredth of the land, taking in the changes, both those which had occurred and those about to. The wind at this height casts his dark hair before him like a banner, nebulous seraphic wings encircle his body like a cloak, his arms crossed pensively across his chest. A furrowing frown mars his scarred face.

For days he has listened to the warnings echoing through the halls of the Towers. For weeks he has listened to the taunts flung by the undead minions of the Tainted Shade, Shadows and Infernal as they deciphered the maze of his making to desecrate the Crusader base. A small smile breaks the thought as he reflects on the amount of time it took the marauders to find their way through his trickery and misleading creations.

The loss of the location of the hall is of little import. The discovery of the Paragon artifacts by dark forces is an inconvenience. Such things change with time and eventuality across the course of things.

Hollow victories all in the absence of the presence of the Crusader ranks. Away in the far lands on a quest to convert, new recruits are rumored to be on the way. Things are changing. Order is gaining a foothold. Goodness spreads. Conversion is taking the masses.

It is even rumored that the forces of evil were driven to attempt to do the forbidden, to ally together to face the rising storm of the Redemption. Such a ploy could only have come from one source. A sneer grows on his face. One could almost wish that the plan had succeeded, just to watch it all blow up in Darkstar's face as the Ninth and Shadows betrayed him. Indeed, that could be most amusing.

Opportune Moments

Withdrawing its fangs from the once supple flesh of the young maid, the vampire dropped the exsanguinated corpse unceremoniously to the cobblestones. Withdrawing a kerchief from the folds of a sleeve, the denizen pompously cleaned the last remaining drops of blood from its angular face, daintily dabbing the cloth so as to not bruise its pallid skin.

Contemptuously the aristocratic deathdealer looks upon the body of the naive girl, barely offering a snort of derision to the motionless corpse before sidling back down the street in the direction of the nearest Inn. Whistling an age old tune to the night sky, the beast is satisfied, the hunger sated for the evening.

So it believes.

The lamps gutter, shying away from the passage of the unnatural host, the aura of cold undeath threatening to swallow even the light of the flames within the beacons. Entering a dark alley, making toward the rear of the oceanside inn, the vampire halts to watch a vagabond picking through the piles of waste cast from the door of the establishment. A gleam of hunger alights its red tinged eyes, the urge to kill overwhelming, returning once again. Creeping amid the shadows, the vampire stalks closer, awaiting its chance.

Bedraggled in a patchwork cloak, the hermit smells to the high heavens, worse than the dockside aromas of rotting fish and brine. His appendages are heavily wrapped in rotting rags, presumably to thwart the bitter bite of exposure on icy nights. His head is concealed in the inspection of his latest find, cradled in his hands.

Opportunity is never wasted on the opportunist, and blood is just as sweet irrespective of its source. The blood-drinker surges forth, its claws digging deeply into the depths of the vagrant's back, making for the throat. And yet, the body of its victims seems to cave inward, away from the damage, avoiding the grip.

In a flash of unfollowed movement, the vagrant turns, catching the vampire in midair, throttled by the neck in a viced grip. The night stalker scratches at the arms restraining him, throwing its head from side to side, attempting to find the means to bite.

"Enough" whispers the hermit. His voice, filled with the timeless echo of countless victims. The vampire's eyes widen, suddenly in fear and recognition. The voices are those of HIS victims.

"Thou hast found thy last sustenance upon this plane. Thou arte now mine." The talons at his throat tighten. Eldritch flames flow from the once vagobond's orbless eyes, encompassing the undead abomination. The memories of past murders flood into the vampire's mind, along with the certainty that oblivion has come at last. Scrabbling for freedom, the creature weeps, sable tear marring its cheeks.

The azure fires grow, encompassing the form of the vampire, its screams swallowed in the crackling force of the unearthly burn until nothing remains. Retracting his arm from the now empty space, the hermit returns to his scavenging, awaiting the next opportunist seeking oblivion.

The Lunar Listener II

(Continued from D'Sarian Lore, Lunar Listener, January 25, 2005)

The smell of carrion is intoxicating, surrounding this place, the Infernal Citadel, drawing scavengers from far and wide to the bounty of easily gained sustenance. That which is not used by the Infernal is cast off in the charnal wastes, to be set upon by flocks and packs of ravenous beasts - jackels, vultures, buzzards, and even crows. These, amongst the multitude of creatures upon which I hold sway, upon whom I rely to watch the movements of the brood. That which passes before their eyes, through their ears, becomes known to me.

Upon this chilled, moonlit night, the Dark God hath come forth, atop the heights of the Citadel, surveying the view.

I have not forgotten our last encounters, the timultuous conflict which met with no resolution. He, the parody of life, the abomination of Order. An evil incarnate, swathed in regal bearing, with power to seduce, obfuscicate, and enveigle the innocent to corruption. He is everything which I am not, everything which I loathe, despise. The Darkstar, the antithesis of all I hold and define dear. He bears close observation.

Tonight he seems unsettled, staring upon the moon with vapid eyes, speaking to himself. Perhaps he has finally gone mad, a most fortuitous event should it come to pass. His speech of armies and movements is most intriguing, echoing down amongst the uncaring scavengers, whispered within the depths of my far reaching mind.

"Time and tide is on our side. The momentum swings our way. If this battle brings on Armeggedon, then so be it. In the end, ONE shall be crowned king and the undead brood shall stand by the throne at my right hand! THIS I SWEAR!!! " Darkstar bellowed to the unswayed moon, his lips curled revealing the predatory fangs of his brethren, a rabid dog on a mission, surely.

His tirade is cut short by the arrival of his manservant, who like a sheepdog, leads his errant charge back to the depths of the citadel, and out of the chill blustered night.

I sever the connection, leaving my charges to their gormandic delights, cleaning away the stain left by the undead host upon the land.

"He covets that which he may not attain." A crazed voice speaks, echoing about the simple chamber.

"What do you care if the Dark Liege removes the pale poser with but a sweep of his broadsword. Surely the thought of the Beast cut in twain will not prompt tears to thine eyes." A weasilish voice snidely whispers.

I ignore them, as I ever ignored them, my thoughts taking in the depth of meaning of all that which the Undead Lord disclosed. A grin plays across my face.

Spectral Recovery

The mystic fugue passed before them, closing in on their spectral forms with wispy fingers of entropic energy. The madness surrounds them, a myriad cacophany of screams, bellows, insane laughs, and other raucous sounds that leaden the senses.

"We can't stay here long, Mandolus. I'm not sure I can take it." Nikola imparted to his partner, his mind wavering under the constant deluge of maddening inconsistancies. "Nothing makes sense here."

"We made it this far, Nikola, we can't fail now." Mandolus returns, unable to hide the waver in his answer. Gliding onward, driven by the power of the spell of their casting, the spectral Tabernacle entities are drawn.

The mists part below (at least they believe it is below, but in this hellish Chaos, it might as well be above or beside them) revealing their long lost quarry, catatonic, unmoving, stayed and rooted to spot. Drooping wings cover a besotted head, bedraggled, broken.

"Mandolus, look at him. This place has already corrupted him." Nikola intones, shuddering at the sight of the Oracle. They alight nearby, drawing near cautiously. "Is he... alive?" Nikola asks.

A wing shudders, causing them to fall away, taken aback, frightened. "Apparantly so." Mandolus answers falling close in to the frozen form. "We have to get him out of here."

Floating upon each side of the fallen god, they take each others hands, forming a circle about the shrouded form. Their prayers reach through the ether, through the gate, beseeching the awareness of their Mistress, begging for a miracle, for the power to do the unthinkable. The power to bind an immortal.

The mystical energies flow into them, the blessed and beloved of the Tabernacle, allowing them to shape the flows of the arcana. Navarre shudders under the magical barrage, but remains unmoved. His form shimmers, reshaping, remolding. As the energy dissipates, a spectral raven, sits between them, its blank eyes ignoring them. The white bird remains aloof, unseeing, uncaring, even as Nikola gently takes hold of the animal.

"Lets get out of here now!" Mandolus says wearily. "Already this place is dragging on my senses. I don't know how he even lived through it this long."

They swoop away, ghosts through the entropic landscape, flying toward an unseen gate. A gate leading back to the realms of darkness. Back home.

Prelude to Release

Nikola gasped as he entered the vast chamber, its seamless obsidian walls filling the expanse with a pearlesque magenta glitter as the torchlight reflected back at them. The vaulted chamber was immense stretching into the darkness, beyond view. "Mandolus, this has to be the place." Nikola whispers, awe struck by the immensity of the cavern.

"You should see this." Mandolus answers from the cavern floor below, the circle of his torchlight reflecting in golden glints. Nikola makes his way carefully downward, finally reaching his comrade and the rest of the sentinels.

The base of the cavern is bevelled, forming a basin into which magical golden sigils have been inscripted, forming a circle of protection. "No doubt, this has to be the place."

"Alright everyone, this is what we have been looking for." Nikola begins. "I want you sentinels to stand about the perimeter, along the inside of the circle, while Mandolus and I prepare. NOTHING gets in, nothing gets out, unless we say otherwise. Am I clear?" He stares emphatically at the remaining troops, none say anything.

From the volumnous folds of his cloak, Mandolus withdraws a container and removes the lid. Walking about the perimeter of the circle, he casts a glittering sand, barring spiritual entrance and escape within the range of the spell to come. Nikola unfolds a golden byre and sets it in the exact center. Arranging the fuel components, Nikola quietly chants. Magical fire leaps to life in the byre, radiating no heat and glowing a pearly white.

"Are we ready?" Mandolus asks quietly, the severity of what is about to occur weighing down the room. "Yes." Nikola answers, sitting before the magical flames. "Sit across from me." Taking his seat, Mandolus begins to synchronize his chanting with that of his brother, their words losing meaning, melding with and bouncing from the cavernous walls, overlapping and echoing.

The glyphs react, glowing with their own ambient light. The sand ignites into flames, reflecting their own black fire to counter the white flames before them. The sentinels gasp, backing further into the range of the ring, away grom the black fire.

Their chanting halts, their eyes open simultaneously, staring into each other. Their irises are gone, Nikolas reflecting the pure white of the pearl flame, while Mandolus' sight reflecting the ebony fire. Their speech alters, taking on the echo of ages, beyond mortality, beyond ages.

"The barrier of dimensions for ages has now stood." recites Nikola.
"Broken now, in dire need and desire, by consecrated blood." recites Mandolus.
"We open now the gate to the realm of Chaos lost." intones Nikola.
"Retrieving that which was miscast, and untimely crossed." recites Mandolus.

The flames, dark and spectral, brighten, flare, fill the expanse with power. A pair of screams escape the soldiers as two fall forward, lifeless. "What in the name of the realms is going on!", yells a soldier, hastily sweeping the area with a gaze, seeking the source of the attack.

Nikola and Mandolus' eyes grow dim, their heads slump forward. Alarmed the sentinels rush forward, yet stopping short of touching the Tabernacle priests. "What should we do." Asks a confused sentinel. "We wait as instructed." answers the captain. "Surround the mystics, keep watch, stay away from the flames."

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Nikola awakens. At least he thinks he is awake. He raises his hand to his face, but feels nothing, whether lack of a hand, or lack of a face, he senses neither. He merely is. He exists.

He is aware that Mandolus is nearby. Unseen, yet there all the same. "It worked." he imparts, for nothing is heard, nothing said. "Yes, it worked." comes Mandolus answer, silently.

"We must hurry, we cannot survive this spectral form long." They descend into the flames of the byre, through the unseen gateway opened by the arcana of their magic. "Goddess protect us."

Icy Trek across the Mount

The screams of the wounded are disconcertingly confusing, blending with the raging ice laden wind. Sheets of ice and sleet bounce from Mandolus' face and woolen cap. The thick snows make traversing the meager ledge precarious at best, which is likely why the nightmarish beasts chose to ambush them here. Pained eyes, stung by the biting hail and the endless squinting against the bitter wind and blinding sun glare against the snow, sweep the blizzard swept sky. "THERE!" Mandolus screams to make himself heard above the roar of the wind, "IT'S COMING BACK!"

A dark speck materializes against the raging white backdrop of the polar sky. Growing larger and larger, advancing quickly. The peryton wheels through the air, its raucous screech grating the nerves, heard well above the storm, and making the hair on the back of Mandolus neck to stand up. Dragging his snow laden feet quickly through the deep dunes to better place himself in a position to strike, Mandolus irritatingly casts a glare at the soldiers confusedly milling nearby. "It's coming back, Sentinels, form up. There.", he points emphatically at the quickly approaching beast, "THERE DAMN YOU!" Quickly he throws himself behind a sleet covered boulder, muttering a few arcane syllables under his breath.

The remaining Sentinels rush forward, finally recognizing the threat, forming a wall of steel and flesh betwixt the raging beast and the Tabernacle lorists.

Sweeping across their ranks, the abomination drags one soldier from the ledge, his screams echoing up from his long fall down the side of the mountain. The peryton glides quickly beyond reach of their weapons, the glint of it's malevolent eyes clearly displaying it's intentions to swing back about and launch another attack. Over their heads a blazing arc of mystical energy pulsates, crashing into the peryton, causing it to grow confused in its flight and crash to the ground like a leaden stone. Dirt and snow cascades through the air at the force of its impact, the monster weakly rises upon its eagle taloned feet and shakes it's stag head in confusion.

"Forward for the kill!" screams the captain, his arm sweeping forward to throw a hand axe. The momentum of the weapon causes it to revolve end over end before burying with an audible thud in the left wing of the peryton. The beast shrieks wildly and begin thrashing about with its talons, raking many of the men that stray to close.

Mandolus stands, eyeing the beast with determination, a prayer slipping from his lips, the miracle unfolding before his eyes. The air grows colder, ice builds about the struggling beast until its movements become sluggish, slowed, then halted. Its flesh slowly takes on a bluish tint until not even the monster's breath can be seen escaping its snout. "Quickly, hack that thing to pieces ere it devises a means to get out of that!" he commands, casting his long scarf across his mouth and plunging his frostbitten hands into his cloak.

He trudges back against the far wall, listening intently as the soldiers hack and hammer away at the frozen beast. Already, the snow has begun to cover the deep tracks that he and the soldiers made on their way to the edge of the precipice. It won't be long ere the blizzard completely blocks off the whole ledge with ice and snow. Before him, within the meager glow of lanterns and torches, the wounded are arrayed.

"Nikola, how fare the wounded?" Mandolus asks quietly, placing a hand upon the shoulder of his laboring compatriot. "I'm afraid that the attack was quite devastating on the forces of the Sentinels. I haven't the means to treat these men in this place. The exposure alone can kill a healthy man here, much less a man gravely wounded by those monstrosities." Nikola glances backward, as if reminded of the creatures which caused the current strain of maladies to befall the searchers. "What say you on the disposition of the remainder of the beasts?"

Mandolus grits his teeth, "I'm afraid we have lost a number of more men, but we were able to eliminate the last of the beasts just now." He wrings his trembling hands beneath his heavy cloak, unsure if it is a symptom of the extreme cold or the recent shock of activities that have occurred.

"We shouldn't linger here. Carnage such as this will draw more unwanted attention." Nikola whispers, his comment nearly lost in the throes of the storm. "We need to continue on. We are just too close to give up now."

Upward and onward. Mandolus looks up to the heights of the mountain, where the lone peak is shielded by the snow laden clouds. "Goddess grant that the chamber spoken of exists on this dread place."

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"I see. I have been deceived." His voice echoes.

"You see nothing! The all seeing Oracle, yet, you never foresaw this instance in Fate did you?" laughter erupts, disrupting the roiling fog.

"Don't get him riled up again, we need him pliable." squeeks another voice.

"You can't hold me here forever." he weakly answers.

Location Imparted, Trek Departed

Within a dream the answer came to them both, the loving purr of a kitten followed by the glowing eyes of a cat appearing before their mind's eye. Unfolding like myst, the knowledge was imparted in bits and pieces.

A dread lich, unknown to this world, now dust. The trials of Zayne and the Tabernacle in their search through the Underdark city of the drow. A decaying book full of dark necrotic arcana. The dread sigils of Necros declaring the means of opening the border to Chaos. The wind swept, ice covered peak of Mount Caelestistelum. A long forgotten chamber.

With a start, they awaken, simultaneously. Quickly gathering their equipment, Nikola and Mandolus make ready for their long trek, a trek with an end finally in sight. "Sentinels, to arms and prepare to march!" Shading their eyes against the muggy heat and waves of bugs buzzing about in Amazonia humidity, their eyes sweep to the southern pole, to a chilling and freezing environ filled with dangers and further mystery.

"We have the means for opening the door. We have but to ascertain a way of securing his capture safely." intones Mandolus, his gaze peering knowingly at Nikola. "We have time, brother, the mysteries of the arcana are known to the Goddess, a way shall be made clear in due time." responds Nikola hefting a walking staff and smiling with determination. "Soon. This trek shall be completed."

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The incessant laughter fills the foggy landscape, originating from nowhere, everywhere. Gone are the moments of lucidity. Gone is the sense of identity. "At last, he has succumbed!" gloats an insidious voice. "It was inevitable.", answers a timid, weasellish whisper. The fog swirls and eddies, the passage of giant wings covered from sight.

Prisoner of the NetherRealms

(Continuing from Purrs from the Kitten Goddess)

The darkness is foreboding, a cloying scent of rotting flesh and unrestrained madness drip from the miasma filled air. Eddies of sickly fog swirl and lazily drift about the nightmares haunting the ever-present night. Screams permeate the landscape, gutteral squalls of horror that deafen the ear with the force of their timultuous cacophony. Order does not rule here. Order has no hold here. This is a realm of chaos, the nether world, a hell of sorts. There is no sense to be made. Up is down. Earth flows like water. Dogs mew like cats.

Yet...

A Figure emerges. It can just be seen through the sickly gases of the dimension, resting upon the ground amid the endless chaos, huddled, rocking. The fog closes about him, shrouding, hiding anything and everything nearby. Voices break the timeless eminations of unrestrained entropy. A discussion? A meeting? A torture session?

"One and one are two... Two and two are four... Four and four are eight... ", recites the weary prisoner, his speech timed with the repetitive motion of his rocking. Long, ratty hair shrouds his pallid face, ragged shuddering breath weezes with each pronounced syllable.

A second, weasellish voice chimes in, "Just give up. None of this matters. Give in to the nether. Allow the chaos to claim you. Find oblivion." The chaos swirls with each spoken word. The screams continue unabated.

The figure shudders, "Eight and eight are sixteen... Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two..." continuing the litany without pause, seemingly without hearing.

A third voice intrudes upon the man's vocalizations, "Pay! Make them all pay!" A psychotic laugh cuts through the tortured screams, chilling to the bone. "Kill something... anything... make it bleed! Cut... cut... cut. Itsy bitsy pieces even!" The laughter continues, sickening to hear. "I will show you the way." The voice falls ominously silent. A talon can be seen, scarring the figure's already blooded form, tracing a pattern upon his weathered skin.

Pained he continues, undaunted, "Thirty-two and thirty-two are ..."

"No escape. There is no escape for you!" Snorts the ferret voice. "Give up! Give UP!"

The fog swirls... excited by the passage of his wings before enshrouding him once more.

Now... lost to sight... unseen... yet still heard.

Asserted Cooperation

I feel the lashing bite of the whip tear into my shins, entangling. I extend my talons and turn in mid-dive, angling to slash at the restraining hold of the weapon. The Governess yanks upon the whip, tightening the grip and sending me off balance. "Caught you again!", she cackles menacingly, her arm swinging the weapon like a sling in a wide arc above her head. Nausiously, I withstand the dizzying ride, until the whip slips and I find myself careening across the compound, crashing into one of the high buttressed walls.

I slide to the ground, in a daze, literally seeing stars. The ground shudders as the titaness crosses to finish me off. "Not so confident now, are we?", she booms from above me. The moonlight again falls to shadow as her immense form steals the light. "Enough games, you are done." I hear the creak of her leather body suit as she lifts her titanic boot and brings the heal crashing down upon my supine form.

My body melds with the earth, the immense pressure of the Governess' weight threatening to burst me like a squashed bug. "Just like that succulent grape, Nemesis.", she laughs tauntingly. The rage mounts, the power builds, arcing lightning spills from my orbless eyes. I squirm my arms and legs beneath me, and push with all my might, the wrath of the energy lending power to the desperate, self-preserving maneuver.

"Wha?!", the Governess screams as she is thrown off balance, and falls with a seismic quake to the ground. I leap into the air, waves of loose dirt billow like a cloud about her prone form. Her hand raises to her face, her head shaking away the cobwebs of the befuddling fall. Her eyes alight upon me and glare with hate.

"Enough.", I intone, devoid of emotion. My hands sweep about me in an energy trailing arc, the casting of a spell limning my body with an azure aura. My wrists gauntlets meet with a concussive blast as I speak the word of power, releasing the incantation. Not at the Governess, but at the earth under her.

Her face contorts fearfully as the ground liquifies into a viscuous gripping quicksand. The titan's massive weight pulls her down like a stone in a pond, sinking her immense body to just above the neck, her thrashing making her sink all the faster. I halt the incantation, allowing the ground to return to its original state, leaving the giantess quite restrained and embedded in several feet of solid rock.

"This won't hold me forever! You will pay!", she screams, thrashing her head back and forth, chipping away at the rock with the blunt bludgeoning of her thick cranium. "Long enough, child, long enough.", I respond deprecatingly, my hand coming to my mouth and wiping a trail of blood away.

Ignoring the now helpless Governess, I alight on the far side of the compound, and walk to the black steel gates. Wrought into patterns of tortured souls, dripping with crimson blood, the gate to Tower is quite imposing to behold, but I'm not here to sightsee and gawk. With but a word and gesture, the gates rise, leaving several sentries staring gape mouthed at my entrance. I peer at them ominously, seeing into the depths of their being. Creatures of abomination, undead beings animated to the Undead Lord's purposes. A feral growl escapes my lips as I extend a taloned fist in their direction, "Stand down, vermin, I have business with thy master. Declare my presence unto him. Tell him the Herald has arrived." They fumble with their weapons for a moment, then coolly advance, seeking to bar my passage. "I can see we require some convincing." My taloned fist, still outstretched toward them, clenches and pulls. The foremost vampire sentinels wither to dust, their dark essence drawn toward me, and devoured in the space of an instant. "Need there be more displays?", I glare pointedly at the now halted survivors. "Take me to thy master, now." They fall into formation, leading the way.

Arrival at the Tower

I find no exhileration of the flight northward, though I should count my blessings considering the fact that I recovered the use of my wings but days ago. They still feel stiff and disjointed, but suit my purposes... I no longer have the leisure to wait longer for answers. My shadow is cast hauntingly below me, trailing in wraithed flight across the valleys and peaks of the Veprezili range, scattering the skittish mountain goats at my passage. My thoughts are focused upon the forthcoming confrontation, oblivious to the devastation of the southern pole that my recent release of power formed.

Like a beacon, the dark Tower, draws me onward. A boil on the festering hinterlands of the realms, the abysmal spire lies nestled deep in the fetid corruption that is now Mindar Llyie. Once proud and powerful, the city of magic is now nothing more than ruins filled with assorted creatures of abomination. All owing to the ruination of Tower. Evil seeps from the roots of that dim place, befouling the land, contorting the natural, defying order... mocking me.

Hours pass as I traverse the length of Miden'nir, the night sky concealing my passage. The torches of the city of Kjeldoran greet me, yet I have no time, nor inclination to stop, I move on. Skirting the city walls I fly onward, to the northeast and my target.

It is midnight by the time I draw near the ruins, the worst of possible times to come, assuredly, considering who I am dealing with. Across the wreckage of Mindar I fly, the wind foul and caustic, licking at my face as I come within sight of the Undead Lord's Tower.

I alight in the courtyard, near a drinking well, the blood moon peering down upon me accusingly. I cautiously survey my surroundings, marking the locations of the garrison, the slave quarters, the piles of detritus and decay. The lunar light reveals an impression in the cobblestones, several strides wide and long. Curiously, I lean down to investigate, scratching at the rock with my talon. Someone was... crushed here, by something... humongous. I stand again, taking in the totality of the titanic boot impression at my feet.

Suddenly the light disappears. Not from the whole of the compound, but just directly about me... as if... as if something were casting a shadow over me from the light of the...

Swiftly I turn, talons extended and teeth grit, to come face to shin with the Dark Governess. "Typical." I berate myself.

The Vault of Heavens

The gods change the world in mystic ways, for each deity looks upon reality through the tinted glass of their own perceptions, a confining and restricting measure of what is right and what is wrong. The earth, being a place of all realities, is seen as insufficient to each god for it is incapable of fitting their whims, their divine sense of what is correct, what must be. Thusly, they immutably change the land wherever they trod to match their innate sense of perfection, most oft without even realizing they do so. Such has occurred within the heights of Mount Caelestistelum.

Long did I meditate within the confines of the cavern atop the mount, the wind outside shrieking, unrelenting. The scars of my battle against the chaotic flux have healed slowly, causing me moments of delirium where the past, future and present have bled together before my eyes. Slowly, my wings have grown back, a source of great and eternal frustration to me, for the sensation of itching never stops as each feather reasserts itself to wing. Maybe I am ill at ease, for I am unable, still, to ascertain the reasoning of the entropic flux that so devastated me. I will, however, not relent until I discover the source and eliminate it.

I look about what once was a rugged chamber, nothing more than a dirty mountain cavern filled with jagged rock and rubble. Now, the walls climb seamlessly to unseen heights, purest obsidian that gleams with an innate light. A magical mixture of tones fill the chamber, the crystalline notes of celestial harmony. Circumscribed upon the levelled floor is a circle of protection, luminous golden sigils forming a center of power into which I have long sat, cross-legged, deep in thought.

"Here. A great evil shall come to pass. Someday." I intone with a leaden voice, my mind taken by the fugue of destiny. Arcing blue lightning shoots from my dead eyes, striking the sigils at my feet, inscribing therein the words of prophecy, a warning, a last hope.

Shaking off the grip of Fate, I stand, stiffly, and stretch. My newly grown wings reaching acroos the length of the cavern. "Soon, I shall be ready." I stroll out the maw of the cave, into the brunt of the ripping winds, shrouded in feathers.

My deepening stare peers piercingly to the north, where my search must inevitably begin. There must always be a beginning, and I know exactly where to start. I clench my fists, my face becoming ashen as brows furrow in immeasurable hatred. "I am coming, Dark One."

Azure lightning spills from my ire filled gaze, igniting the ice that blows about me in tiny detonations. I turn and return to the Vault. More meditation is yet needed.

But soon.

Chilling Passage

The blast of the escaping power sends me reeling across the sky with sizable boulders. Shrieking winds blow in, battering me about as if I were nothing more than a feather in a twister, my face becomes glazed with a fine layer of ice. Had I my wings still, I could have risen above it, but there is no time to lament their loss for now. I focus upon the roiling earth, far below, levelling my body and diving through the timultuous air currents like a porpoise in the bucking sea. As I meet the terminus of my descent, I acrobatically twist and roll, deadening my inertia enough to finally come to a complete stop at the base of the polar mass.

The winds blow the snow and ice in a horizontal haze across my unseeing sight, blurring the land with the sky in a vast canvas of chilling white. Massive drifts rise and flare pennants of misting snow from the apex of their blizzard driven waves.

Chest high, the snow dunes makes the passage through the wastes seem to last forever. Were I mortal, the sub-zero temperatures would have long ago frozen my blood. As it is, I am forced to continuously wipe the frosty sheen of ice from my face as my breath instantaneously freezes in place.

My progress and sense of direction are confused, I fail to notice the uphill slope of my ceaseless passage. All I can think of is returning to the citadel, unravelling the mystery of the recent Chaotic attacks, and visiting swift and fatal vengeance. Upward I climb, higher and higher, the wind shrieking louder and louder, deafening in its cacophony.

At last, I pass through the lower bounds of the clouds and beyond the wrath of the blizzard below. In my delirious wandering, I find myself looking across the vast, billowing ocean of timultuous clouds, encircling and secluding the pinnacle of this great mount like an island. This must now be the highest of mountains in the known realms, I muse, reaching to the heavens like a jagged tooth. I am the cause of this affliction, I only have myself to blame. But what choice was there. *Sigh*

I tred onward, finally coming upon a darkened cave, and entering within I resolve to rest a while. I have much to think upon... what has happened to date... what I have been through... what I have been forced to do. There is a reason for all things... I will know.

I must meditate. I must heal. I must look into the timeless writings and see.

The wind continues to blow outside... there is time for these things... time must be made. For now, I will be content to wait. But first, this dreary chamber needs some changes.

Cataclysmic Benevolence

A force of immeasurable strength strikes the remnants of my awareness with vaulted will. Were I more than I am, I would certainly recognize it for what it is. It's identity is strikingly familiar, yet continues to allude me, slipping through my talons like gossamer.

Molded, shaped, reforged, reformed. Pulled from the empty void of oblivion, I am reborn. Yet the energy of my destruction remains within, overpowering, overwhelming. The chaotic forces threatening to once again unmake me. I am pulled inexplicably to the prime materia, a device of ultimate destruction awaiting to be unleashed. And yet, I feel I can do nothing to avert the disaster.

Yet, I have sensation, I feel. I feel the earth beneath me, surrounding me, enclosing me. My unbound eyes open, revealing the unpenetrating darkness of the underworld. Sealed away in this nebulous tomb, a location certain to bring about the most devestating effects upon my imminent fatality.

The power builds, coursing along my body in arcing bolts of jade lightning. The remnant shards of the Destiny Gate are embedded beneath my black skin, glowing with the power of Order, casting a blue glow that strives to control the rising destructive fury of the chaotic.

I rise to my feet painfully, the withered vestiges of my once boundless wings falling to tatters. The scar upon my face burns to the bone, etching a permenant brand into my skull.
Heat, heat so profound it rises in visible patterns, withering and melting the rocks, pools of magma collect at my taloned boots. Surges of radiation rise from my glowing form permeating the land, forcing a mutative effect that was never meant to be.

"This cannot be. There must be something that can be done."
Order. I am the vessel, the conduit of Order. The power can be bound, changed. The thought rebounds through my mind, forcing a semblance of calm and determination.

The arcing bolts become more aggravated, as if sensing my thoughts, the power exponentially growing, seeking to thwart all control. I draw upon all of my will, forcing the power through the focal of the destiny shards. The energy writhes, seethes, fights all control. "Divine Order, aid me."

My form is enveloped completely in the azure glow of holy light, bolstering the integrity of the mystical crystals. Direction. The power demands direction. Direction which must come now.

The mountain under which I am bound heaves with wave after wave of pulsing energy. I have no choice. The fate of the realm depends upon this now.

Falling to my knees, I drive both fists into the slurried rocks. A glowing azure sphere expands, grows, encompasses the land... I have mere seconds, I must release the power. Wild surges of jade lightning flow into the earth, the power mounting, building, escalating, escaping, refining, rebuilding, remaking, undoing. The land rolls, heaves, roils, seizes, ERUPTS. "What have I done!" Golden tears fall down my smouldering face.
**************************************************************
A cataclysmic eruption shakes the realms. The sky fills with ash and burning cinder, darkening into the depths of lightless night. Far to the south, Mount Kurgan explodes violently, destroyed, the land surrounding it is upheaved, broken. Viscuous polar winds seize the land, encapsulating the area in ice. The remnants of the chaotic energy mutates all life within the confines of the order sphere. None escape. What has happened.

Unseen, Unheard, Unknown

I float, insensate in the white, soundless void. Naught reaches me now, not the cries of the mortals that seek to worship me, nor the taunts of those that would earn my wrath. I have lost form...the tattered remains of my body are insubstantial now, there is only thought... only sheer will. My mind attempts to seize on the why's of what has happened... but it doesn't matter now. I drift... languid... calm... fading...

Calamity

(FLUx)

"Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

The blinding pain of the entropy imbalance returns, searing through my mind like a bolt of lightning, igniting a stream of unending pain that drives me to my knees. The agony forces a stream of golden tears to fall from my bound eyes upon the billowing floor of Nirvana, where they harden into amber. "It's too soooooon... much toooo sooooooon!" The blazing runic scars upon my cheeks scald and burn into my flesh, the rising smoke billowing to fill my private chambers with an acrid cloud. The heat rises until, finally, the restraining silk band across my face catches flame and burns away leaving my orbless eyes unfettered. I hasten to throw my arm across my visionless sight, lest unseeing gaze burn away the entirety of the horizon.

The heavenly plane of Order shudders at my discomfort, sending tremulous shock waves through the myriad clockwork cogs and towering scales and spires that make up the place. The gonging of the infinity bell rings across the realm, toning the urgency of the event. The time has come... as all times do.

The pounding in my head increases, my heart seizes in my throat. The growing urgency, driving me insensate. I lurch to my feet and stumble forth. Blind, my hands grope for direction, following the compulsion which drives me onward to stand, before the gaping maw... of the Destiny Gate.

The pulsing energies of the dimensional gate surge in the throes of cataclysmic magic, unbound and unrestrained. The mirrorlike interior of the gate flexes and roils under the bounds of entropic seizures racking the world. Until...

(FLUx)

BOOOOOOOOooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

In the space of a moment of thought, the individual gate shards fly inexorably toward my awe struck form catching up to me as I am driven backwards from the concussive blast of the explosion. I feel the impact of each magical shard as it cuts through my body, tearing viscera, stealing my essence. Roiling waves of seething magical energy fill the air with a nauseating amount of power, I am unaware if it spills from my torn form, or from the remnants of the Destiny Gate.

Weakly I raise my head, peering unseeingly upon the wreckage of the Tower, now open to the sky and still rumbling in what could only foretell a complete collapse. I cannot move, paralyzed.

(FLUx)

I scream, the haunting cry of my pain echoing across the plane and down into the mortal realms long after I can no longer seem to speak. The energy builds, filling me, the scar blazes into white incandescence, orbless eyes spill ivory flashes of light as pure mystical energy retches from my still screaming mouth until...

BOOOOOOOOooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Lull Ere the Storm

The realms are experiencing a rebirth of sorts, a rennaisance, wherein new events, things and places are coming to light. It is appealing to mine eyes to see the mortals happy, for they deserve to revel in some amount of joy, as the threat of destruction always seems to loom across the land.

The incursions by the Dark Alliance have abated for a time, the city is teeming with citizens that do not bear the wide-eyed look of fear and jump at the slightest of sounds any longer. Whether this is a good thing or bad, is beyond my caring, though I can foresee that the Alliance shall return to bring about havok once again, but none wish to nor care to listen to the ramblings of a bird, even if his vision does extend into the realms of the unseen.

The citizens prepare for a contest of strength and wiles, wherein the best among them can be determined. Such an Olympic feat is certain to bring about many amusing entertainments...I am certain it is a thing not to be missed.

Fugued Thoughts

This form was not the first, nor shall it be the last. I was mortal... once. The memory of that time is shrouded, fueged. Burned away are the vestiges of ordained death, now there is only timeless servitude.

I wish I could but grasp the thread of truth that dangles, and pull it to unravel the mystery of my origin, yet alas, the pieces elude my every attempt to put them together.

Why does it matter now? Such power as flows through an immortals veins is long sought by the heroes of the realms, spending years in search of this artifact of untold mysticism, or that scroll of antiquity that will lend them the secret to ascendence.

What was the path that my mortal coil took so long ago that resulted in this end...

Transition

I am pleased with the continuing advances about the realms. The Hamlet of Rime appears to be nearly completed, its workers busselling like ants about on the ground. Soon it shall be made known to the realms, and the secrets that are harbored therein.

My time has been divided in watching the progress there and in viewing the changes inside the city of Kjeldoran itself. Ms. Clause finally took leave of her man-hunting ways in the tavern, presumably chased off by the surly highlander kilt-wearing warrior that took her place at the bar. The snow-ball flinging elves have finally run for cover, unsuited to the heat and humidity which rains down upon the city.

Most troubling of all is the state of the city's water. It seems that a local tribe of goblinoids have taken it upon themselves to reroute all water supplies for the fountains from the sewage that flows from Red Light District. It is a thoroughly deplorable sight to behold, and the smell...WHHHHHEWY...is bad (and for a carrion eater, you know its bad when I say it stinks that much). There are things floating in the water cisterns that would make the toes on the most stalwart dwarf curl, the most virtuous paladin to keel over in fits.

Until the problem is rectified, I fear that the residents will be forced to deal with the sewer dwelling goblins. One has no idea as to what they wish to parlay to correct the problem. I really do not care, the matter be truly known.

I have witnessed the rise of a new building, Mystic Heights, within the confines of the city. A black crystal tower that sends motes of starlight into the air whenever light touches it. It has become quite an activity center of later, seemingly a residential apartment for the wealthier set peoples of the realms.

The Lance of Longinus

Nothing more than a spear, a lance with a long birchwood staff, and a soft iron shod tip. Yet, it became so much more, an artifact of the highest power for its type. By spilling the blood of an immortal, a son of God, this weapon became the Spear of Destiny.

Who would dare think that the ichor of the highly blessed could wrought such weaponry, bestowing the powers of artifice upon mortally created, mundane objects. Imbued with the powers of heaven, the lance became a weapon of great and feared power.

Any who wield the lance are undefeatable in battle. For so long as they wield the spear, their power is amplified, their constitution invigorated, their prowess at battle increased. Many are the kings, emperors, and shahs that have seized power at the point of this weapon. And many still are the kingdoms that have fallen, for want of controlling it.

It was upon my travels, across dimensional alternatives, in a universe where magic is but a weak echo, and the gods are silent in mortal lives, that I first sensed it. Hidden for centuries in a museum, in an exhibit, in plain sight. It's true power ungaugeable to the people of its world and time.

Calling. It had pulled me to it. Demanding use. Expecting reprieve from its long period of inactivity. Its hunger for action was insatiable. Its power limitless. It was to be mine. For a time.

Now it resides here, in this time, in this realm. Wielded by myself, the Herald of Fate, and rightful owner of the Spear of Destiny. But who else would you expect to wield it, after all?

I have fashioned many copies of the artifact since, raining the realms with these lesser powered weapons from time to time. Their true power remaining forever hidden from those that use them. Well... at least as long as I wish it to remain a secret, that is.

Born the Rook

My talons reach into the ethereal chaos, fighting the entropic forces that defy Order, defy restraint. I work feverishly, shaping and molding that which refuses to be set, to be made constant. As I work, I feel my very being become frayed at the edges, further forcing me to tighten my concentration to maintain my own existence lest the forces that surround me rend me apart.

I have the will to survive, I have the will to create. I will not be unmade. I shall remain.

The tension grows, as time passes, and that which will be is finally held constant by my crafting. Breathing a single breath into the form, it awakens to life, immortal, yet servile only to me, its creator. My familiar, the most favored of all my creations.

Dark wings unfold, revealing a leonine body, a hawkish head gnashes a razor sharp beak which screaches with the joy of birth. Its tail lashes excitedly, tipped by a spur dripping in poison. Razor sharp claws rend the chaos about it, its eagle eyes piercing the gloom to look upon me.

"Go, my pet. Seek those that defy Order, and make them pay."

The Rook Wyvern is unleashed unto the realms.

Unanswered Prayers

I marvel at the demands of mortals, they request such oddities of the gods, that they could so easily attain themselves. An eternal comedy unto mine ears what is requested, what is sought.

"Make me rich.", "Make me powerful.", "Make me a leader amongst men.", "Secure my safety against my enemies.", "Strengthen my sword arm, my aim, my endurance.", "Protect me"

All within the means of those that seek these things out themselves, actively. And yet, a divine source is ever so much easier to provide these things unto them like a djinn released from a lamp.

This is why I have no followers. I expect them to make their own way, and NOT rely upon the blessings of my favour. To make mistakes, to stumble and grow stronger. Their free will is what makes them strong, makes them different, even from the immortals.

This is a different world, here in the 'heavens'. Ours is a path more restrained than they can fathom, our choices not always open to us. The life of a mortal is, in some ways, easier than our own.

But then again, I may just be speaking for myself.

The Dark Pantheon

There are many that believe that I must stand with the side of good, maintaining the balance against the perveyors of evil, spreaders of banality, and other wicked niceties. I say unto them, why should I?

Good and evil are but shades of grey, meer images of one another. A child's game of Jacks compared to the eternal struggle of Chaos and Order that began since the inception of time and shall continue unto oblivion.

Do I place myself in opposition against Lord Undeath, D'sar, due to his 'evil-ness'? Nay, I do it for no other reason than his very existence, and that of his mortal progeny, is abhorant to the true Order. Being Undead is what makes him my foe, not his choice of activity.

Am I bothered in the slightest by Lord Ahriman's betrayal of the cause of Justice, and fall into the depths of Hellfire? No... I merely stand against the chaos that has enveloped him, overtaken his immortal soul. That is what is my nemesis, not this streak of 'wickedness' that mortals like to discuss so profoundly in their debates of good versus evil.

Revelry

I shall never understand the mortal tendency to find reasons to revel and make complete arses of themselves. These things which they call 'Holidays' are nothing more than an excuse to get drop down drunk, eat profusely, start a few fights, and act with a complete random disregard for normalcy.

What is entertaining about horphing up last nights overindulgance of alcohol and bad food? Cats don't seem to take pleasure in dispensing furballs, and yet mortals still partake of that which makes them sick and call it a 'party'. This is but a small bit of the puzzling nature of mortals.

It is apparant that it is a blessing that their lives are so short, I would shudder to think of what the world would be like if such as they, lived forever. Their dance with chaos lands them in more messes than they can see, and yet they still jump headfirst into the puddle.

Worship or Cultish Fascination

Worship, bah, I have no need of such a thing. My existence is due to my own will, not sustained by the belief of others. My continued growth and power is not bound by the number of followers I have.

I make promises to no mortal, I answer a calling which the mortal realm cannot fathom. My viewings may affect their lives profoundly and seem important to them, however, I do not dispense portents for that reason. It is who I am, I do not exist to benefit others. I merely am.

I am a soldier of Order, standing against the rising tide of the devouring wave of Chaos. I have no time to listen to pleas for trivial blessings, nor granting of clerical powers. I further my own ends, I require not mortal hands to do so.

Perchance such draw to worship is due to my Seraphic form, a symbolic relation to a heaven that shall welcome them for serving me. They listen not when I explain that I maintain no such place for souls, that there is no heaven dedicated to those that follow me. There is a greater order involved in the afterlife, one that doesn't involve me. I am the carrion eater, not the shepherd of souls. They follow blindly without listening... were I dedicated to darker designs, such faults could be capitalized upon, but that is not my way.

I see what is, what has been, what shall be. Destiny and design are my forte, not comforting the shades of life lost.

Undead or Walking Take-Out

There is no greater abomination to behold than the undead. Their decaying bodies, devoid of souls, animated by wicked design and an unholy link to the negative plane. The empty vessels, putrid and rancid, corrupt and vile, walking and talking as if they had never lost life, never died. They are unredeemable, having no place in the land of the living, none in the lands of the dead.

They do not even have the dignity to act like normal carrion, actually having the gall to fight back if I happen to choose one for a snack. No self respecting carrion eater should have to concern itself with the prospect of indigestion, merely because the aforementioned meal refuses to lie still. However, there is sport in the hunt with them at the very least. It is intriguing to note that even these creatures can fear something... especially in light of the fact that they seem to revel in the fear that they cause in their own rampaging.

Hear me, all creatures of the undead, be you heucuva, vampire, lich, dracolich, wraith, wight, ghost, shade, or what-have-you. You hold no place in the realms, no place other than in the depths of my gullet. A tasty morsel, a minor tidbit to sate my hunger during my flight. You are not eternal. Mine is the face of your final oblivion. I am your ultimate destruction, watch for me.

Chaotic Warrior Challenge

I find my frustration level growing over the continuing proliferation of chaotic warrior insurgencies in the realms. Their disruption of Order is intolerable, entropy spreads wherever they dare to walk. Their misguided following of the chaotic force that threatens to doom the realm is beyond belief and surely based in insanity.

No clan seems willing to stand against them, I have even gone so far as to challenge the heroes of the realms to return ten of their heads to me for my blessed favour, yet still none dare to face them. Were not the universal laws clear on prohibiting my eradicating their fouling manipulations from the face of the planet, I would have done so FAR long ago.

And yet, I know something that even they do not. That the future is set. Even their destiny I have seen and measured... and it ends in oblivion. I have set forces in motion to counter chaos in the future, I lament that I yet must tolerate them for the time being.

Discovery

Mine eyes have looked upon an anomaly in the lands, a difference, a newness which has na'er been seen. Whilst upon my daily flights, scouring the realms for portents of the coming incursion of Chaos, I saw it. Nestled within a green vale, surrounded by snow-capped white mountains, a hamlet.

Seemingly sprung from the bowels of the earth over night, the bustling village was teeming with activity. My curiousity got the better of me, forcing me to land and perch upon the gold enameled bell tower of the church in the center of the community. From there, I saw it all, the school children playing in the yard; the merchants hawking their wares; the knight-guards patrolling the walled circumference surrounding the city. There was even a small festival taking place in a grand palisade toward the south end of the place, where the residents cavorted and partied with wild abandon.

But amidst their seemingly happy and jovial exterior, there is a sense of wrongness, of a hidden threat, which seems to pervade their thoughts, even in the midst of their daily lives. Their eyes are tinged in fear, and from time to time, if you observe closely, they quickly glance to the high mountains nearby, pursing lips and wringing hands.

There is a mystery here, in the midst of their white steepled homes, and revelling atmosphere. A mystery that should be solved. But not, I think, by me.

I returned to my vigil, flying away from the place, certain that mortals of the land, in their wandering and adventuring ways, would eventually locate the place and decipher the conundrum.

I have greater concerns to worry about.

Aspect of an Immortal

I am a god of destiny, of future foretold, prophecy set forth and life ordained to a certain path. I am the Herald. I am the Oracle. I am a force of ultimate Order, and as such am always in opposition to chaotic influence. I am unconcerned by the petty squabbling of good and evil, seeing both as meer shades of the true battle betwixt Chaos and Law. I am the bane of undeath, the carrion eater.

I ride the tides of the sea of Time, seeing the past, present, and future. I speak cryptically, and often in rhyme, casting vague glimpses upon the truth that I see.

I may take the form of a prophet, a blind seer, a raven, or a dark seraph. I do not accept followers, however sects have been formed claiming to follow the course of my flight (See Crusaders of the Redeeming Inquisition).

I am reclusive. I am ambivalent.

Enter the Governess

Craning my neck I look upon the titanic Governess, rising beyond the limits of the walls, standing as high as a small castle keep. Six feet tall heels adorn black boots, crimson blood stains marring the leather. A black leather catsuit adorns the totality of the behemoth, shimmering with myriad shadows and glimmers of moonlight. A whip trails from her hip, drawing up dust from the cobbled courtyard at her passage. She is strong, immensely strong.

I consider taking flight, placing myself at a better vantage at which to deal with this monstrosity, but I no sooner unfurl my wings and brace to hurl myself skyward, than the Governess launches herself forward, falling hard to the ground and sending up a seismic shockwave, her rough hands enclosing about my body like a vice. Her lips curl in a feral grin, hungry, mishievous. "Got you, I did!" The rank stench of her breath spills over me like a miasma. It is all I can do to keep from retching. "Have me, you do. But, can you keep me." I answer stoically.

Her grip tightens, tearing the breath from my lungs. "Answer your question, did I?", she booms. I brace against her unbelievable strength, struggling. She regains her balance, rising from the ground and standing, holding me before her face with a gaze of childlike delight. "Pluck, Pluck, Pluck!", she cackles, sending chills running down my spine. Her other hand comes into view, teasingly stroking first one wing, then the other, before gaining a grip on both and starting to pull. The pain is unbearable as I scream, "NOooo!"

Base survival instinct is all that provided me the means of escape from the pain and humility of the Governess' treatment. Energy spikes sprung from my rothe-hide armor, like thorns, piercing the restraining hand of the monster, tearing at her flesh. Her booming cry shakes the courtyard as I am hurled groundward, my breath stolen from me as I greet the earth in a rumpled heap.

I have but moments to look up and see the titan, her eyes welled with pain-rimned tears, shaking a hand full of bleeding rents. She looks down, hatred blooming on her stoney visage, her murderous intent clear to even the most bumbling of fools. Yet a fool, I am not.

I hasten to my feet, hurling myself to the side as her foot comes thundering down upon the pavement where I had first landed. "Not nearly as fast as you think you are, now are you dear." I taunt her as I leap into the air and rise to a more precipitous altitude. Hovering several feet before her face, well beyond her reach, I halt, "I have no qualms with you, you will stand aside and allow me to pass, or..." The crack of her whip sends me into a series of maneuvers to avoid the lashes, she IS faster than I thought after all. "Why is it never easy." I sigh, going into a barrel roll, twisting and turning, avoiding. Her wicked, maniacal laughs follow me.