Post by Turn 360 and walk away on Nov 11, 2012 17:07:50 GMT -5
Thunderous cannons lined the beachhead, their booming voices foretelling an approaching ship. Here, on the other side of the great wall, no one, villager nor guard, could tell for sure. As the voices of the cannons echoed into plaza, low voices talked of what might be happening beyond the wall, and of what they might do about it. All hot air, of course: the old woman on the farm won't pick up a sword, nor the merchantman a hammer.
At any rate, they were safe inside the walls. A town lined with slabs of granite and sandstone as imposing walls 40 feet tall in some places. Regimented guards stood watch along the crenelations of the wall and on each side of each port through, though none have drawn a weapon or sounded an alarm.
"'Tis nothing," they kept saying. These people of the desert, in their adobe brick houses and temples squat in the shadow of a river gorge, "Nothing can reach us." The waters swelled and ebbed as the ship grew closer. The guards on the wall could see that, but inside the gate, the people were unaware. The cannons thundered and ripped at the sails and punched at the hull, but the ship continued on as if it were alive and lumbering here under it's own unnatural willpower.
At 600 feet, the ship seemed it were sinking, but lurched forward, beyond the first level of defenses lining the cliff. at 500, the walls were nearly vacant as the ship was able to fire it's first volleys. Once it drew in 400 feet, the few guards left to man the cannons were witness to it's grotesque truth: The ship was not made of timber like humans', but great ribs of a whale arched it's hull and bent spines rose from the deck to hold aloft a sail. by 200 feet it was clear that the fleshy membrane weaving this bone ship together pulsated and beat like the skin of a drum.
Or a heart.
Women and children huddled inside their pueblos and beseeched their gods that this siege may end and their fathers and husbands may return. Men outside the homes uneasily shift their weight and grip their swords as they pray to different gods and waited. If one were observant, one would notice that the air took a greenish hue and a soul taste and the flies. The flies and insects in this normally dead land were strange.
The air was choked as the vessel ran aground outside the walls. No sound arose either side, save a frenzied wail from inside the village temple, quickly stifled by the atmosphere.
thump
Dirt and dust fell from the frame of the gate.
thump
The wood of the gate began separating from the iron bracings.
thump
A fist almost as large as a man fell through the wall and, flesh catching on the splinters, tore a hole into the gate and pushed through. A mass of flesh, pale and peach-colored, covered in pus-oozing sores and blue bruises and dead eyes. Around it's feet, more creatures swarmed. These dead. These corpses. These abominations and their shrieking wail as they at last found food.
The women watched as the flood rushed over the village and drowned the warriors. The children watched as they were dragged away and heard their screams as muscle was rended from bone and the warriors were killed for food and to add to the ranks of the Risen. And the gods watched indifferently as these men were slaughtered and reanimated as members of the army they fell to. Then the women and the children watched their fathers' and husbands' and brothers' blades fall on them.
~~~
This was the reign of Epreidran, the lich king. An emperor of a land long-lost, Epreidran ruled wise and strong for decades before the exodus of the Gods from the world and decades after.
Legend holds he visited a fortune-teller as a young man enjoying the splendor of his great city. The old woman looked sternly at the young man and forecast doom in his name, warning of someone close to the young emperor attempting to claim the throne by cloak and dagger. The emperor, distraught, schemed into the earliest hours of the morning to remove his usurpers. By sword and axe, he removed any creature close to him, friend and family and enemy alike, until the young man sat, uncontested, on his gilded throne to rule over a deserted wasteland.
But this was not enough for the man who grew from young to old alone and isolated, kept company by only his thoughts and his voice, and he returned to that fortune teller once evening, hidden behind a cape and the night at his back. The fortune teller laughed at his request, "No man can live forever."
"But I have since proven wrong your last prophecy," claimed the man, "for there is no one near me to take my crown."
"Very well, place your hand on this card," and he did so, "This is the card of Dheril, the goddess of birth and death, the realm of the dead and the master of life. She can sustain your life."
"What power does this card have?"
"It has no power if you do not believe it," And at these words, the fortune teller pushed a steel dirk through the old man's chest and pulled the crown from the dying man's head.
The fortune teller ruled for a short period of time, and used her powers to guide the kingdom into new fortune. There was, however, one thing the forecaster hadn't seen. The mad king, the emperor she had slain, did believe in these gods that had abandoned the world and did believe in the power of her tarot cards.
The cards below Dheril, Goddess of life and death: 20 strokes, simple tallies, and the image of a king.
This Lich King will rise again, legend told, on the anniversary of his assassination, the end of his lineage. And it will be 20 generations from the last ruler to hold the throne, the deceitful fortune teller. He will rise, and sit aloft on his mountain throne as he claims what is rightfully his: the world, and the life of that woman who forecast her own killing.
~~~
Aidan Valdemar looked around at the creatures who formed a ring around the campfire before him, most human, some not. They looked back, processing the legend that he had just relayed. Aidan took hold of a log and threw it into the flames, "Enough fun for now. We need to get these supplies into town by tomorrow or it'll be our heads."
He wore his sand-colored hair long, and had a scruffy beard from the length of the travel. Over one eye, a jagged scar stretched from his brow to his cheek and shined in the firelight. A merchant by trade, he's had run-ins with bandits and foul beasts, but never risen. And despite this, the legend still scared him, likely because he was told it since he was a child.
At any rate, they were safe inside the walls. A town lined with slabs of granite and sandstone as imposing walls 40 feet tall in some places. Regimented guards stood watch along the crenelations of the wall and on each side of each port through, though none have drawn a weapon or sounded an alarm.
"'Tis nothing," they kept saying. These people of the desert, in their adobe brick houses and temples squat in the shadow of a river gorge, "Nothing can reach us." The waters swelled and ebbed as the ship grew closer. The guards on the wall could see that, but inside the gate, the people were unaware. The cannons thundered and ripped at the sails and punched at the hull, but the ship continued on as if it were alive and lumbering here under it's own unnatural willpower.
At 600 feet, the ship seemed it were sinking, but lurched forward, beyond the first level of defenses lining the cliff. at 500, the walls were nearly vacant as the ship was able to fire it's first volleys. Once it drew in 400 feet, the few guards left to man the cannons were witness to it's grotesque truth: The ship was not made of timber like humans', but great ribs of a whale arched it's hull and bent spines rose from the deck to hold aloft a sail. by 200 feet it was clear that the fleshy membrane weaving this bone ship together pulsated and beat like the skin of a drum.
Or a heart.
Women and children huddled inside their pueblos and beseeched their gods that this siege may end and their fathers and husbands may return. Men outside the homes uneasily shift their weight and grip their swords as they pray to different gods and waited. If one were observant, one would notice that the air took a greenish hue and a soul taste and the flies. The flies and insects in this normally dead land were strange.
The air was choked as the vessel ran aground outside the walls. No sound arose either side, save a frenzied wail from inside the village temple, quickly stifled by the atmosphere.
thump
Dirt and dust fell from the frame of the gate.
thump
The wood of the gate began separating from the iron bracings.
thump
A fist almost as large as a man fell through the wall and, flesh catching on the splinters, tore a hole into the gate and pushed through. A mass of flesh, pale and peach-colored, covered in pus-oozing sores and blue bruises and dead eyes. Around it's feet, more creatures swarmed. These dead. These corpses. These abominations and their shrieking wail as they at last found food.
The women watched as the flood rushed over the village and drowned the warriors. The children watched as they were dragged away and heard their screams as muscle was rended from bone and the warriors were killed for food and to add to the ranks of the Risen. And the gods watched indifferently as these men were slaughtered and reanimated as members of the army they fell to. Then the women and the children watched their fathers' and husbands' and brothers' blades fall on them.
~~~
This was the reign of Epreidran, the lich king. An emperor of a land long-lost, Epreidran ruled wise and strong for decades before the exodus of the Gods from the world and decades after.
Legend holds he visited a fortune-teller as a young man enjoying the splendor of his great city. The old woman looked sternly at the young man and forecast doom in his name, warning of someone close to the young emperor attempting to claim the throne by cloak and dagger. The emperor, distraught, schemed into the earliest hours of the morning to remove his usurpers. By sword and axe, he removed any creature close to him, friend and family and enemy alike, until the young man sat, uncontested, on his gilded throne to rule over a deserted wasteland.
But this was not enough for the man who grew from young to old alone and isolated, kept company by only his thoughts and his voice, and he returned to that fortune teller once evening, hidden behind a cape and the night at his back. The fortune teller laughed at his request, "No man can live forever."
"But I have since proven wrong your last prophecy," claimed the man, "for there is no one near me to take my crown."
"Very well, place your hand on this card," and he did so, "This is the card of Dheril, the goddess of birth and death, the realm of the dead and the master of life. She can sustain your life."
"What power does this card have?"
"It has no power if you do not believe it," And at these words, the fortune teller pushed a steel dirk through the old man's chest and pulled the crown from the dying man's head.
The fortune teller ruled for a short period of time, and used her powers to guide the kingdom into new fortune. There was, however, one thing the forecaster hadn't seen. The mad king, the emperor she had slain, did believe in these gods that had abandoned the world and did believe in the power of her tarot cards.
The cards below Dheril, Goddess of life and death: 20 strokes, simple tallies, and the image of a king.
This Lich King will rise again, legend told, on the anniversary of his assassination, the end of his lineage. And it will be 20 generations from the last ruler to hold the throne, the deceitful fortune teller. He will rise, and sit aloft on his mountain throne as he claims what is rightfully his: the world, and the life of that woman who forecast her own killing.
~~~
Aidan Valdemar looked around at the creatures who formed a ring around the campfire before him, most human, some not. They looked back, processing the legend that he had just relayed. Aidan took hold of a log and threw it into the flames, "Enough fun for now. We need to get these supplies into town by tomorrow or it'll be our heads."
He wore his sand-colored hair long, and had a scruffy beard from the length of the travel. Over one eye, a jagged scar stretched from his brow to his cheek and shined in the firelight. A merchant by trade, he's had run-ins with bandits and foul beasts, but never risen. And despite this, the legend still scared him, likely because he was told it since he was a child.