Yormungand
01-02-07, 07:03 AM
OOC: Closed to Kell, Dante, INDK, and myself
The first pale rays of whitegolden luster spread solemnly over Raiaera's soft hilltops and tranquil vales. Odors of early morn wafted from deserted woods into small villages and bustling cities alike, to awaken the Raiaeran populace in yet another hopeful dawn. The landscape breathed with slumber, but somewhere amidst the long grass between the eastern sea and inhospitable Alerar, there walked one person whose mind had not been lulled by nocturnal rest, and whose brash anxiety more than made up for the lack of activity inside the nearby city of Carnelost. Although covered completely in black robes, the frame's jagged posture gave away a human origin, yet the man's graceful steps rendered that initial conclusion doubtful. Dark pauldrons encumbered his slightly bentover shoulders, and a similarly shadowy staff was planted into the dew-covered soil every yard or so. At the top, the strange staff curled around a fiery pearl, to end with the intricate carving of a snake's head several inches above.
That foreign stave, to Thoth Shiva, was more than a metaphor. He identified himself as the Serpent, or Yormungand - a heretical reference to a heathen's doomsday. And now that snake slithered up to a small hilltop north of Carnelost, Raiaera's only defence against an assault from the more southwardly situated Obsidian Spire. As he reached the apex, Thoth looked over his shoulder. The Spire's onyx contours were clearly visible, rising up high above the Red Forest, its ominous black eyes ever watchful. The Serpent had never visited its beauteous buttresses - he did plan to do so, at least once. But not today. Today, he would finally travel farther down the path of phobomancy, travel roads that only few had dared journey upon before. Of course, since such practises were frowned upon by local authorities, the Half-Elf had chosen no man's land as the location for his experiment. Reckless as he might be, he did not fancy the thought of winding up in prison, or worse, death.
Wishing the aid of both hands, he thrust his peculiar staff firmly into the ground, so that it stood upright without the support of the Half-Elf slender arms. The Serpent quickly retrieved a piece of parchment from the inside of his robes, and held it into the morning sun to discern what he himself had scrawled upon it. As he did so, the sinister shadow beneath his hood was dispelled, and a pale face was laid bare. Eyes without color or pupil cast a concentrated gaze on the withered paper. Torn and regrown skin over the halfblood's left orb suggested an old wound. Apparently satisfied with what he'd read, Thoth returned the writing to his garments. He took a gourd from a belt that lay firmly wrapped around his waist. Not to drink from it, for it contained foul-smelling crimson fluids, and Thoth held it as much away from him as he could.
Yegh. Cow-blood.
The tome that he'd scribbled information from had suggested the use of fresh Elven blood, but Thoth figured that would not have made him popular with the Bladesingers or High Bards. So, instead, he had visited a slaughterhouse and requested some bovine blood - fresh and living, just as well. Perhaps not as powerful, but that's why he'd taken an extra gallon in reserve. Without further delay, he turned the gourd top-down and walked around the hilltop in a perfect circle. After that, he drew a five-pointed star within it, careful not to spill any blood. Once the work was finished, Thoth stepped away and cast the empty gourd away, satisfied. He'd drawn pentagrams so often during his early years as a phobomancer that the measurements came to him naturally. Indeed, apart from the vile odor galloping through his nostrils, the unholy symbol was perfect.
Now, the text...
He retrieved his serpentine staff from the ground and with the other hand grabbed a new piece of folded parchment, larger than the first. The instructions had said when the black tower looms over Darkkin, which, according to Thoth, meant that he had to wait until the morning sun was such that the Obsidian Spire's shade pointed directly at Raiaera's former rival, the Dark Elf lands of Alerar. He couldn't distinguish clearly, but the Half-Elf deemed the sun's position close enough to give it a try. The text he had to use was written in some kind of Alerar dialect. It wasn't normal Dark Elven speech, although the superfluous presence of gutturals and broken words did suggest such heritage. He scraped his throat and started to speak, his deep voice sending hollow echoes through sky and soil.
"Ku'lam! Velve d'isto, nindel chu ulu udossa wun v'dri, nym'uer uusta daewl! Usstan har'luth l'yibin! Ramoth, kla'ath uns'aa lu'elendar!"*
A tremendous rumble rose up from the bowel of the earth, and darkened purple smog arose from the pentagram, puff by puff, oozing over the hilltop. Thoth took a step back, clenching his staff so tightly that his knuckles turned sheer white. This was not how the spell was meant to function! One nightmare had to be brought alive, and be controlled! This was a disaster! The purple cloud reeked of pure terror, the power of a thousand nightmares accumulated within its foul embrace. To make matters worse, the cloud drifted towards Carnelost at great speed, as though it were guided there by the nightmares of yestereve. He had to stop it! But then the purple haze drank him in, and he stood in insuppressable horror. Only for a second. Then the cloud had passed.
And Thoth thought in relief that he had not been harmed, and that nothing had changed.
* = "Rise! Blade of night, that comes to us in our sleep, hear my plea! I overthrow the weak! Nightmare, serve me and endure!"
The first pale rays of whitegolden luster spread solemnly over Raiaera's soft hilltops and tranquil vales. Odors of early morn wafted from deserted woods into small villages and bustling cities alike, to awaken the Raiaeran populace in yet another hopeful dawn. The landscape breathed with slumber, but somewhere amidst the long grass between the eastern sea and inhospitable Alerar, there walked one person whose mind had not been lulled by nocturnal rest, and whose brash anxiety more than made up for the lack of activity inside the nearby city of Carnelost. Although covered completely in black robes, the frame's jagged posture gave away a human origin, yet the man's graceful steps rendered that initial conclusion doubtful. Dark pauldrons encumbered his slightly bentover shoulders, and a similarly shadowy staff was planted into the dew-covered soil every yard or so. At the top, the strange staff curled around a fiery pearl, to end with the intricate carving of a snake's head several inches above.
That foreign stave, to Thoth Shiva, was more than a metaphor. He identified himself as the Serpent, or Yormungand - a heretical reference to a heathen's doomsday. And now that snake slithered up to a small hilltop north of Carnelost, Raiaera's only defence against an assault from the more southwardly situated Obsidian Spire. As he reached the apex, Thoth looked over his shoulder. The Spire's onyx contours were clearly visible, rising up high above the Red Forest, its ominous black eyes ever watchful. The Serpent had never visited its beauteous buttresses - he did plan to do so, at least once. But not today. Today, he would finally travel farther down the path of phobomancy, travel roads that only few had dared journey upon before. Of course, since such practises were frowned upon by local authorities, the Half-Elf had chosen no man's land as the location for his experiment. Reckless as he might be, he did not fancy the thought of winding up in prison, or worse, death.
Wishing the aid of both hands, he thrust his peculiar staff firmly into the ground, so that it stood upright without the support of the Half-Elf slender arms. The Serpent quickly retrieved a piece of parchment from the inside of his robes, and held it into the morning sun to discern what he himself had scrawled upon it. As he did so, the sinister shadow beneath his hood was dispelled, and a pale face was laid bare. Eyes without color or pupil cast a concentrated gaze on the withered paper. Torn and regrown skin over the halfblood's left orb suggested an old wound. Apparently satisfied with what he'd read, Thoth returned the writing to his garments. He took a gourd from a belt that lay firmly wrapped around his waist. Not to drink from it, for it contained foul-smelling crimson fluids, and Thoth held it as much away from him as he could.
Yegh. Cow-blood.
The tome that he'd scribbled information from had suggested the use of fresh Elven blood, but Thoth figured that would not have made him popular with the Bladesingers or High Bards. So, instead, he had visited a slaughterhouse and requested some bovine blood - fresh and living, just as well. Perhaps not as powerful, but that's why he'd taken an extra gallon in reserve. Without further delay, he turned the gourd top-down and walked around the hilltop in a perfect circle. After that, he drew a five-pointed star within it, careful not to spill any blood. Once the work was finished, Thoth stepped away and cast the empty gourd away, satisfied. He'd drawn pentagrams so often during his early years as a phobomancer that the measurements came to him naturally. Indeed, apart from the vile odor galloping through his nostrils, the unholy symbol was perfect.
Now, the text...
He retrieved his serpentine staff from the ground and with the other hand grabbed a new piece of folded parchment, larger than the first. The instructions had said when the black tower looms over Darkkin, which, according to Thoth, meant that he had to wait until the morning sun was such that the Obsidian Spire's shade pointed directly at Raiaera's former rival, the Dark Elf lands of Alerar. He couldn't distinguish clearly, but the Half-Elf deemed the sun's position close enough to give it a try. The text he had to use was written in some kind of Alerar dialect. It wasn't normal Dark Elven speech, although the superfluous presence of gutturals and broken words did suggest such heritage. He scraped his throat and started to speak, his deep voice sending hollow echoes through sky and soil.
"Ku'lam! Velve d'isto, nindel chu ulu udossa wun v'dri, nym'uer uusta daewl! Usstan har'luth l'yibin! Ramoth, kla'ath uns'aa lu'elendar!"*
A tremendous rumble rose up from the bowel of the earth, and darkened purple smog arose from the pentagram, puff by puff, oozing over the hilltop. Thoth took a step back, clenching his staff so tightly that his knuckles turned sheer white. This was not how the spell was meant to function! One nightmare had to be brought alive, and be controlled! This was a disaster! The purple cloud reeked of pure terror, the power of a thousand nightmares accumulated within its foul embrace. To make matters worse, the cloud drifted towards Carnelost at great speed, as though it were guided there by the nightmares of yestereve. He had to stop it! But then the purple haze drank him in, and he stood in insuppressable horror. Only for a second. Then the cloud had passed.
And Thoth thought in relief that he had not been harmed, and that nothing had changed.
* = "Rise! Blade of night, that comes to us in our sleep, hear my plea! I overthrow the weak! Nightmare, serve me and endure!"