Rumblings in the North

Subject: Rumblings in the North Thu Mar 27, 2008 8:37 pm

Deep in the mountains of Winterstern, in a location that no map remembers, a group of three sit in the hollow between two cliffs. Though the sun blazes brightly in the sky, its warmth does not reach into the hollow, a crater barren save for a massive set of stone doors and a small campfire with three figures huddled aound it. Though all three humans have seen many winters, one is emaciated and wizened beyond the other two. It is he who keeps rapturous eyes tranfixed on the doors while the other two grumble.

Borazen, we have been waiting here for weeks. How much longer do we wait here, staring at doors that can't open?

The emaciated old man breaks his gaze away from the doors to regard his companion, irritation filling violet tinged pupils.

I have been called here. He will come. Have faith in The Master. He will make all things right. All wrongs shall be -

Borazen's voice is cut off as the weathered doors blow outward with a resounding crack, scattering snow and other debris that had held the portal shut for centuries, possibly millenia. The figure that emerges forth pulses with power, his agonized steps accompanied by a low thrum and almost blinding the others outside the gate with the light of energy that cascades off his indistinct form. He turns to regard the impenetrable blackness within the open door's maw, then throws back his head and cackles, a sound that carries no emotion save bitterness and incalculable triumph. A voice follows that laugh, ancient and cold, brittle like old ice.

That is the best you can do, Pyrnistarus? You and your thrice damned kin have never and shall never triumph over me for long. Even your vaunted prison is no match for my power! You will all suffer for this! Especially that betraying harlot of a mother of yours!

The figure continues to cackle after his diatribe, the light on him fading and his ambiguous form coalescing into something more recognizably mortal. Borazen finally works up the courage to approach, scurrying forward and prostrating himself before the now human appearing, naked form.

Master, you have returned! Borazen stayed faithful, master, even after the Grand Betrayal. Borazen came when you called, master, and is ready to serve.

The figure looks down at the groveling old man, and a violet tendril of power snakes out from his fingertip. The energy catches Borazen full in the face, and he squeals in pain and terror. The squeals rise in pitch to deathly shrieks, and the old man begins to thrash on the ground. Slowly, an insubtantial ghostly visage of Borazen is pulled from the now twitching body, like pulling taffy from a hot kettle. As the ghost is finally wrenched free of its mortal constraints, the body ceases its twitching. It lies still, the face pulled back in a rictus of unspeakable horror. The ghost regards its tormentor with horror and fear. The naked human speaks.

Yes, you will serve. You will give me your knowledge.

The figure listens as the spirit relates his wordless tale. A wicked smile curves the corners of his mouth as all that Borazen once knew is absorbed. When the mental accumulation is complete, the spirit bursts out of existence in a purple light.

Testing his mortal form once again, the figure weaves magics of the mortals to clothe himself in robes of shimmering purple and to alter his face to the one that his newly returning memories knew well. As he weaves a simple teleportation spell, his mind goes over what the spirit had told him. The cosmic irony of it causes his body to shake with terrible mirth. As the teleportation takes effect, the man vanishes, leaving only a single hissed breath on the frigid winds.

The Protector Hood......
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"Tis better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."

Subject: Re: Rumblings in the North Tue Apr 22, 2008 5:41 pm

A veritable woolly mammoth of a man, High Warthane Dag Wyrmskjald sits upon his wooden throne at the head of a huge table. Though spring is now come to Winterstern, warmth never really makes any headway against the frigid tundra and biting winds that pervade the land and seascape. A fire roars merrily in the hearth of the longhouse, and its walls boom with the sounds of laughter and celebration. The unification of the tribes had been a long and hard-fought crusade, but now all the thanes sit at Dag's side, eating his roasts and drinking his spirits. Though some were uneasy with the alliance, they would learn to live with it, or die for it. The heads of a half-dozen dissenting thanes rot on pikes situated at various points in the longhouse, the odour of their decomposition possibly the least offensive smell next to the roaring boisterous Winterstern warriors. As Dag leans back in his chair and quaffs his ale, he murmurs silent prayers to Harg and the Twins - and even Raena - for gifting him with the strength and wisdom to finally bring peace to the Wintertern Men.

The instant the prayers leave Dag's lips, the wooden door to the longhouse swings wide, blowing snow and wind into the warmth of the sanctuary. A figure clad in purple robes stands at the doorway, his cowl obscuring his features. Disgruntled hoots and hollers begin at the intrusion, and Dag slowly rises to full height - nearly topping eight feet - and fingers the massive axe that always sits near his right side. He raises his left hand into a fist, and the other thanes around the table fall silent, watching their new King.

Who are you that lets the wind and snow run free in my dwelling, with no consideration for a man's hearth and the merriment of a weary people?

The robed figure slowly reaches up and pulls the hood back, revealing his face. Many of the assembled thanes gasp, and more than a few reach for weapons. Dag forestalls them with mere looks. His gaze then turns back to the robed man.

Torrakis, many seasons have passed since you have deigned to grace my country with your presence. If you intend naught but peace, then you may sit at my table and partake of my roasts and my spirits. If you intend ill, you will find that the Thanes of Winterstern are no longer the fragmented group of infighters that you once knew. Dag gestures at an empty chair.

The figure steps forward, allowing light to fall on his face. When he speaks, it is deep and full of timbre, but there is something not quite right about it, that sets Dag and the thanes a little on edge.

Dag Wymskjald, your dream and your wish has been granted to you. It is now time to supplicate yourself to the one who brought it to pass.

The Warthane sputters, indignant. You, wizard? You have done nothing to help bring about this unification. It is through the strength of me and my warriors, and the blessings of the gods -

Torrakis cuts in. Yes, the gods. I am heir to a debt that must be repaid, Dag Wyrmskjald. Neither god nor mortal looks favourably on broken bargains. Torrakis raises his hand, palm outward, and shows a glowing blue sigil of what appears to be a spear. The thanes, understanding the significance of this marking, gasp in surprise and look at Dag in consternation. Dag himself sighs heavily and sits back down in the chair. He speaks to the assembled thanes.

Leave us.

Bickering and demands for explanations begin to erupt from the thanes until finally Dag raises his huge axe and sunders the long table in two, showering splinters over the other chieftains.

I SAID LEAVE US!!

Torrakis moves to the side as the cowed thanes begin to file out. When they are gone, down the hill that isolates Dag's longhouse from the rest of the village, only then do the wooden doors close and the screaming begins.
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"Tis better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."