SYRE
He was a shade of his former self. Skin that had once seemed vibrant and kissed by the sun had begun to pale and was covered in a sickly sheen of sweat more often of late. Eyes, once commanding and wild, were haggard and lined deeply within their sockets. Clearing his throat with a grunt, Syre stepped over the small sand pile and found himself with a sure footing, something not easy to do in the desert. With a small cough, Syre cleared his throat. He had partaken of Orlath’s alchemic brew early in hopes of fending off another coughing fit. Consumption had proven an appropriate name for the debilitating sickness that had afflicted Syre. For, not only was it destroying his lungs, but it had consumed all of him. His dreams of conquest, of domination had been put on hold to answer the call of this sickness.
The platform he stood upon was small, no more than six foot in diameter, with grooves etched into its face spiraling into letters Syre had never before seen. The young boy that followed the bandit king was tall for his age, but far too thin. Moving up beside the young warlord, the boy rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes with a yawn. There was a decided resemblance between the two men.
The boy was not the only one short on sleep, many among Syre’s caravan had been up all night digging through the mountains of sand, searching for this very spot. They had camped here far longer than any other place they had visited. The whole of Syre’s entourage was aflutter with gossip. Soldiers whispered of Syre’s search for an heir. Many women had come forward claiming to have birthed Syre’s bastard and the warlord’s mages had been running themselves ragged performing tests of legitimacy upon the children. Finally after weeks of painstaking examinations the mages had produced Syre’s heir.
Syre hadn’t bothered to remember the brat’s name.
Peering out at the expansive waste, Syre turned his attention to his soldiers. They huddled around the platform each and every last one of them eager to here their king’s words.
“This,” Syre said, through the drainage in his throat “is my Kingdom.” Resting a gauntleted hand atop the helm secured at his belt, Syre sighed. “Some would call it a Kingdom of dirt, of waste, of blood, but it is a kingdom nonetheless. This world is far older than any among us can imagine. Civilization long since dead, once resided here; older than the ocean itself, or so the legends would have us believe.”
Turning to face another portion of his men, Syre continued. “Regardless of what these legends say, regardless of what the insects outside of our tribe say, this desert belongs to us and we will go forth and show them our strength. And there will be gold…and there will be women…and there will be drink…and blood…and murder and plenty of everything to whet each and every one of your sordid appetites. Let us awaken these legends of old and show them what luck they have, to be standing in our presence.”
His men roared in response and Syre turned to face the boy at his side. Peering down into eyes glimmering with admiration, Syre drove the steel tip of a gauntleted thumb into the boy’s windpipe and opened his throat. There was but a brief moment where Syre watched his son claw at his own throat with crimson stained hands before the warlord cast the boy to the floor of the platform. As the boy’s life poured from his body, it followed the markings until the whole of the platform had been covered.
Syre stepped off the platform as it fell apart, sending the corpse of the boy into the bowels of the earth. The payment had been made, beneath him wait his destiny.
Turning to his generals, Syre collected his weapons. “Raja, Khalik, you will accompany me to the temple. Tourn, keep watch. ” Spear in hand, Syre descended into the pit.
Dystopia
Untitled?
Moderator: Jen
8 posts • Page 1 of 1
Re: Untitled?
by paradigm on Mon Oct 12, 2009 11:19 pm
Tourn
It’s all in good fun, Tourn reminded himself as the sand soaked up the old man’s blood. If the men are to have a good time, someone has to pay. Rubbing a gloved finger along the scar on the cleft of his chin, Tourn ran his tongue along filed teeth. Better you than me, old fuck.
Most of the men had returned to their tents, eager to rest up for Syre’s return and subsequent march on to glory. Still Syre’s men were a collection of the worst sort of men and among this type there were those whose perversions would never rest. Thus, Tourn found himself watching over a small crowd of murderers and psychopaths beating the tar out of an old man. Tourn wasn’t the type of man to thumb his nose at how someone got his jollies, after all Tourn’s appetites were of a sordid type as well. Yet, even he had difficulty watching the type of brutality these men were capable of inflicting.
The man’s body went limp as the last vestiges of life fled his body and an elderly woman was brought forth to take his place. The beating was systematic, each man delivered a hit and once everyone within the circle had delivered their blow it would start over again until the men had had their fill of violence or the victim collapsed and was unable to rise again upon which they would inflict whatever their hearts desired. General beatings Tourn could watch, but he got a little squeamish when they started the sodomy.
However, there was something decidedly different about the group’s current victim. She voiced no protest. She took her beating with a smile, each strike seeming to make her smile grow wider and wider. It continued to escalate until each strike yielded a grunt, no…a chuckle. It continued until the sundried old woman’s body fell to the ground where she shook with laughter. Tourn’s hand dropped along with his jaw. He could see tears in the woman’s eyes, tears of laughter. A chill ran along his spine at the sight and Tourn shivered.
“All of you…” she croaked between fits of laughter. “All of you will soon know the darkness of your souls…and I will know no pity for you.”
Tourn raised a dark brow at the statement but made no move towards the woman. Instead he watched as the life was stomped out of the woman. He could hear her laughter still and did not entirely understand what it meant when his thoughts of only a moment ago returned to him. It’s all in good fun.
It’s all in good fun, Tourn reminded himself as the sand soaked up the old man’s blood. If the men are to have a good time, someone has to pay. Rubbing a gloved finger along the scar on the cleft of his chin, Tourn ran his tongue along filed teeth. Better you than me, old fuck.
Most of the men had returned to their tents, eager to rest up for Syre’s return and subsequent march on to glory. Still Syre’s men were a collection of the worst sort of men and among this type there were those whose perversions would never rest. Thus, Tourn found himself watching over a small crowd of murderers and psychopaths beating the tar out of an old man. Tourn wasn’t the type of man to thumb his nose at how someone got his jollies, after all Tourn’s appetites were of a sordid type as well. Yet, even he had difficulty watching the type of brutality these men were capable of inflicting.
The man’s body went limp as the last vestiges of life fled his body and an elderly woman was brought forth to take his place. The beating was systematic, each man delivered a hit and once everyone within the circle had delivered their blow it would start over again until the men had had their fill of violence or the victim collapsed and was unable to rise again upon which they would inflict whatever their hearts desired. General beatings Tourn could watch, but he got a little squeamish when they started the sodomy.
However, there was something decidedly different about the group’s current victim. She voiced no protest. She took her beating with a smile, each strike seeming to make her smile grow wider and wider. It continued to escalate until each strike yielded a grunt, no…a chuckle. It continued until the sundried old woman’s body fell to the ground where she shook with laughter. Tourn’s hand dropped along with his jaw. He could see tears in the woman’s eyes, tears of laughter. A chill ran along his spine at the sight and Tourn shivered.
“All of you…” she croaked between fits of laughter. “All of you will soon know the darkness of your souls…and I will know no pity for you.”
Tourn raised a dark brow at the statement but made no move towards the woman. Instead he watched as the life was stomped out of the woman. He could hear her laughter still and did not entirely understand what it meant when his thoughts of only a moment ago returned to him. It’s all in good fun.
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Re: Untitled?
by Toneh on Tue Oct 13, 2009 4:34 pm
The Jester had never been one who wished to lay claim to anything of his brother. He being the younger of the two was never so egocentric to the point of believing he would ever be anything more Syre’s younger brother. Needless to say the cocky young bandit had indeed made a name for him self in these wastes that was spoken in whispers very similar to Syre’s.
But the consumption was doing exactly that to the elder, it was consuming him, consuming him to the point that he would do what ever it took to restore his rotting flesh, nothing else mattered. Many in the wastes said it was madness, the Jester how ever understood what it really was. It was survival. Syre had enemies from every walk of life, and in all his years no blade or coup or attempt of any kind had proven successful. Syre wanted a legacy, Syre wanted to die with his boots on his feet and a blade in his hand. The Jester respected this. The Jester respected his brother’s desires, and though the two maintained cool relations, they both never violated the pact they made with their father on his death bed. On many occasions, unknown to his brother the Jester had helped him, and today he was going to do try to do it again.
From out of the dusty air a group of cloaked figures would slowly walk forward, it was difficult to tell if they were armed or not as their faces and weapons were all shielded by the tan colored cloaks. IT was roughly ten of them, and in the middle was face most men in Syre’s group would recognize.
The Jester wore no cloak, he made to effort to hide him self on this occasion. He merely broke rank and continued his advance, getting close enough to see who it was that was guarding the entrance to this dark place. The Jester’s resemblance to Syre was striking, but there were subtle differences, you could defiantly see The Jester had taken on more of the maternal traits of his genetics, where as Syre was the spitting image of the old man who had died so many years ago. The Jester was younger, and more boyish in appearance, and this made up for a slightly smaller more agile looking man.
Jester halted and began glaring at the entrance to the pit with hesitating. Turning his head to Tourn he would ask a simple question “Has he payed the debt in blood yet?”
But the consumption was doing exactly that to the elder, it was consuming him, consuming him to the point that he would do what ever it took to restore his rotting flesh, nothing else mattered. Many in the wastes said it was madness, the Jester how ever understood what it really was. It was survival. Syre had enemies from every walk of life, and in all his years no blade or coup or attempt of any kind had proven successful. Syre wanted a legacy, Syre wanted to die with his boots on his feet and a blade in his hand. The Jester respected this. The Jester respected his brother’s desires, and though the two maintained cool relations, they both never violated the pact they made with their father on his death bed. On many occasions, unknown to his brother the Jester had helped him, and today he was going to do try to do it again.
From out of the dusty air a group of cloaked figures would slowly walk forward, it was difficult to tell if they were armed or not as their faces and weapons were all shielded by the tan colored cloaks. IT was roughly ten of them, and in the middle was face most men in Syre’s group would recognize.
The Jester wore no cloak, he made to effort to hide him self on this occasion. He merely broke rank and continued his advance, getting close enough to see who it was that was guarding the entrance to this dark place. The Jester’s resemblance to Syre was striking, but there were subtle differences, you could defiantly see The Jester had taken on more of the maternal traits of his genetics, where as Syre was the spitting image of the old man who had died so many years ago. The Jester was younger, and more boyish in appearance, and this made up for a slightly smaller more agile looking man.
Jester halted and began glaring at the entrance to the pit with hesitating. Turning his head to Tourn he would ask a simple question “Has he payed the debt in blood yet?”
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Re: Untitled?
by paradigm on Wed Oct 14, 2009 10:33 am
TOURN
In an attempt to forget the elderly woman’s words, Tourn had called for a wineskin and lay back in a mound of sand attempting to drink away foreboding thoughts. He was alerted to Orlath’s presence long before the army’s High Mage became visible.
“Orlath,” Tourn said with a grimace. “No one would think less of you if you bathed, once in a while.”
Bald pate shimmering with sweat, the squat mage plopped to the ground beside Tourn, the single long forelock of hair hanging down between his eyes. How the mage managed to keep the single strip of hair stationary was beyond Tourn, but he suspected it had something to do with the grease that had accumulated over time within the mage’s hair.
“I’ve no interest in what any think of me.”
“Clearly.” Resting back on his elbows, Tourn peered down at the pit. “What exactly is this place? He didn’t give us much of a briefing before marching out here.”
Orlath shook his head; the cadre mage’s face a mask of vexation. “I’ve found nothing in the annals, the spirits are silent and the entrails have shown me nothing.”
“So we trekked out here for nothing?” Tourn’s voice was barely above a whisper, such talk was not something he wanted the men getting wind of.
“Oh, now, I didn’t say that.”
Placing the palms of his hands beneath his thighs, the High Mage buried his fingertips in the sand and rocked back and forth lazily. “There’s something down there.” He assured Tourn. “Something ancient, far older than anything I’ve ever encountered or read about. What lies beneath this place is quite possibly older than this desert, perhaps older than the ocean itself.”
“Ocean?”
“Aye, Tourn. Many a creation myth fix the world covered in water and set the gods as those who parted them and brought about land.”
“Hmph, sounds like a crock-a-shit to me.”
“Really? And who do you believe created the world?” For the first time since joining him, Orlath fixed his golden eyes on the soldier.
“Who’s to say we aren’t dreaming?”
“That’s surprisingly insightful.” Orlath remarked with a raised brow.
“Aye,” Torn nodded. “Then again...if this were my dream you’d be getting your teeth kicked in perpetually and I’d have many a harem bitch on my arm.”
“A glimmer of intelligence...and then nothing.” Orlath murmured, a sour expression on his face. “Regardless, whatever Syre is awaking down there is far beyond my understanding. He plays with old, deep magic.”
“That was ever his way.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, Tourn nursing his wine and Orlath studying the pit. Before long, Orlath dismissed himself and Tourn was once again alone staring at the pit.
Tourn turned twisted his body to see the arrival of the Jester. His eyes alighted with surprise, then anger, then indifference before returning to the pit. Tourn stood up and brushed sand off of his pants before turning to respond to the Jester’s words. “Aye, paid in full.”
Tossing the discarded wineskin to the ground, Tourn rested his hand at the blade on his hip. “I take it you know what your return means?” Rubbing a gloved finger along the length of his scar, Tourn walked past the Jester. “He’ll want to see you. Raja and Khalik await at the temple gates.”
With a wave of his hand, Tourn motioned for more wine to be brought his way. “Oh, and for what it’s worth” he said with a grim smile “I hope he takes his time killing you.”
In an attempt to forget the elderly woman’s words, Tourn had called for a wineskin and lay back in a mound of sand attempting to drink away foreboding thoughts. He was alerted to Orlath’s presence long before the army’s High Mage became visible.
“Orlath,” Tourn said with a grimace. “No one would think less of you if you bathed, once in a while.”
Bald pate shimmering with sweat, the squat mage plopped to the ground beside Tourn, the single long forelock of hair hanging down between his eyes. How the mage managed to keep the single strip of hair stationary was beyond Tourn, but he suspected it had something to do with the grease that had accumulated over time within the mage’s hair.
“I’ve no interest in what any think of me.”
“Clearly.” Resting back on his elbows, Tourn peered down at the pit. “What exactly is this place? He didn’t give us much of a briefing before marching out here.”
Orlath shook his head; the cadre mage’s face a mask of vexation. “I’ve found nothing in the annals, the spirits are silent and the entrails have shown me nothing.”
“So we trekked out here for nothing?” Tourn’s voice was barely above a whisper, such talk was not something he wanted the men getting wind of.
“Oh, now, I didn’t say that.”
Placing the palms of his hands beneath his thighs, the High Mage buried his fingertips in the sand and rocked back and forth lazily. “There’s something down there.” He assured Tourn. “Something ancient, far older than anything I’ve ever encountered or read about. What lies beneath this place is quite possibly older than this desert, perhaps older than the ocean itself.”
“Ocean?”
“Aye, Tourn. Many a creation myth fix the world covered in water and set the gods as those who parted them and brought about land.”
“Hmph, sounds like a crock-a-shit to me.”
“Really? And who do you believe created the world?” For the first time since joining him, Orlath fixed his golden eyes on the soldier.
“Who’s to say we aren’t dreaming?”
“That’s surprisingly insightful.” Orlath remarked with a raised brow.
“Aye,” Torn nodded. “Then again...if this were my dream you’d be getting your teeth kicked in perpetually and I’d have many a harem bitch on my arm.”
“A glimmer of intelligence...and then nothing.” Orlath murmured, a sour expression on his face. “Regardless, whatever Syre is awaking down there is far beyond my understanding. He plays with old, deep magic.”
“That was ever his way.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, Tourn nursing his wine and Orlath studying the pit. Before long, Orlath dismissed himself and Tourn was once again alone staring at the pit.
Tourn turned twisted his body to see the arrival of the Jester. His eyes alighted with surprise, then anger, then indifference before returning to the pit. Tourn stood up and brushed sand off of his pants before turning to respond to the Jester’s words. “Aye, paid in full.”
Tossing the discarded wineskin to the ground, Tourn rested his hand at the blade on his hip. “I take it you know what your return means?” Rubbing a gloved finger along the length of his scar, Tourn walked past the Jester. “He’ll want to see you. Raja and Khalik await at the temple gates.”
With a wave of his hand, Tourn motioned for more wine to be brought his way. “Oh, and for what it’s worth” he said with a grim smile “I hope he takes his time killing you.”
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Re: Untitled?
by Toneh on Wed Oct 14, 2009 3:08 pm
“I take it you know what your return means?”
Tourn said calmly, his initial reaction was not lost to The Jester who flashed the man smile that resembled more of a grimace, it was most certainly a face Tourn new very well. It was the face that often took hold of Syre when he had it mind to spill some blood, so it was no surprise when the same expression appeared over The Jester.
Tourn how ever was not a person the Jester spoke ill of however. He had his flaws, and spoke his mind freely which was not really saying much, but he was a good soldier. He was the type of man any leader wished and preyed for. He was a man who could get his hands bloody and not even have a bad dream at night. He was passionless, with a heart of throbbing stone. For this fact The Jester admired him, he was very much the dumber uglier version of his brother in many respects, but through that admiration The Jester had resolved long ago he would kill Tourn when the moment is right, today has not changed that.
“My Return means nothing, not to him. All my return means to him is memories of his child hood.” The Jester said smiling as he touched a zig zagging scar on his face. “How do you think I got this.”
“He’ll want to see you.”
“Of course he does..” The Jester muttered in a hesitant voice. When Tourn uttered he words “I hope he takes his time killing you.” The Jester turned about. “When he is finished here “He” may be a questionable term when used to describe my brother.” The Jester said in a rather fear filled hiss, with the words "my brother" enunciated and stressed to Tourn. “Who do you think informed him about this place? His fairy god-mother?”
A large battered book that was older then old would land near Tourn’s feet. “Get that to your mage, or keep it. It may not matter much after today.”
The Jester then turned, and grabbing a small artifact from out of his leather armor he held it up as he descended into that foreboding pit of darkness.
Tourn said calmly, his initial reaction was not lost to The Jester who flashed the man smile that resembled more of a grimace, it was most certainly a face Tourn new very well. It was the face that often took hold of Syre when he had it mind to spill some blood, so it was no surprise when the same expression appeared over The Jester.
Tourn how ever was not a person the Jester spoke ill of however. He had his flaws, and spoke his mind freely which was not really saying much, but he was a good soldier. He was the type of man any leader wished and preyed for. He was a man who could get his hands bloody and not even have a bad dream at night. He was passionless, with a heart of throbbing stone. For this fact The Jester admired him, he was very much the dumber uglier version of his brother in many respects, but through that admiration The Jester had resolved long ago he would kill Tourn when the moment is right, today has not changed that.
“My Return means nothing, not to him. All my return means to him is memories of his child hood.” The Jester said smiling as he touched a zig zagging scar on his face. “How do you think I got this.”
“He’ll want to see you.”
“Of course he does..” The Jester muttered in a hesitant voice. When Tourn uttered he words “I hope he takes his time killing you.” The Jester turned about. “When he is finished here “He” may be a questionable term when used to describe my brother.” The Jester said in a rather fear filled hiss, with the words "my brother" enunciated and stressed to Tourn. “Who do you think informed him about this place? His fairy god-mother?”
A large battered book that was older then old would land near Tourn’s feet. “Get that to your mage, or keep it. It may not matter much after today.”
The Jester then turned, and grabbing a small artifact from out of his leather armor he held it up as he descended into that foreboding pit of darkness.
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Re: Untitled?
by paradigm on Wed Oct 14, 2009 8:16 pm
ORLATH
The sweat in his eyes burned, but it was nothing that could not be ignored. To remove his hands from their work now would be to lose all he had set in motion. Her breasts heaved as he slipped his arms deeper within her. She hung from the roof of Orlath’s tent swaying back and forth; a morbid pendulum. The scent of death and loosed bowels had long since settled in the High Mage’s tent. Focused intently on his work, Orlath did not notice Tourn’s appearance until the latter gave an audible gag, to what Orlath couldn’t imagine.
“You’re a sick man.” Tourn remarked, placing a hand over his nose.
“Am I? Were this entirely sexual you might be correct. As it is, my actions are purely scientific. I’m endeavoring to create life after death without the powers of necromancy.”
“Why not just resort to Necromancy and spare your arm the stench of shit?”
Adjusting the rune stone within the woman, Orlath sighed. “The practice of Necromancy, much like one of its practitioners, is a horrible liability and, at best, a temporary solution solution. With the proper placement of rune engraved stones I can place a consciousness within the corpse and grant it mobility and perhaps life. Once the right combination and placement of stones occur the world will find itself on the path to a better place. An army of the undead servants and soldiers that would not rot away or fall to pieces over time, quite brilliant, don’t you think.”
“Maybe you’re just insane.” Tourn said, gesturing with the object in his other hand.
“What’s that?” Orlath questioned, not bothering to remove his arm from the dead woman’s backside.
“The Jester brought it, think it might have something to do with this temple Syre’s heading into.”
“Leave it on the table; I’ll take a look at it in just a moment.” Orlath gestured with his bald pate to a scroll laden table in the corner of his tent. “The Jester, you say?”
“Take a look at it now. Yeah. That laughing bastard knows something and I want to find out what it is.” Orlath had doubted that Tourn could look even more dangerous than he did naturally, yet the man surprised him time and time again.
“Fine, if you’re going to pout about it.” Orlath’s arm slid free with a sickening pop and the woman’s body began to swing yet again. Wiping his stained hands on the front of his robes, Orlath took the book from Tourn and gestured the soldier away with a wave of his hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.”
With an annoyed grunt, Tourn left the tent and Orlath tied close the flap. Peering over his shoulder at the corpse dangling in the air, Orlath huffed. It would take him hours to locate the rune stones again and even longer to correlate the proper placement. But the end result will be worth it, Orlath assured himself. Tourn could claim what he wanted about Orlath’s sexual proclivities, but such talk would disappear once Orlath had put an end to slave labor.
Crossing his tent, Orlath washed his hands in a basin of murky water beside his cot and sat down at his table to study the text. The language was of a sort he had never seen before, but, oddly enough, appeared vaguely similar to ancient Xexorian. Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands, the High Mage sighed at the task before him. He would need to translate the text and then make sense of it. Despite the use of magic, it would still take some time to make sense of it. All for what? To confirm what I already know? Orlath didn’t need to read about the temple to know that there was an ancient evil involved. He could feel it in his bones. Regardless, if Syre did slip in over his head, it would be useful to know specifically what the army would be up against. His mage cadre would be useless if the temple’s magic tainted their own. Thus he had little choice but to make haste.
The sweat in his eyes burned, but it was nothing that could not be ignored. To remove his hands from their work now would be to lose all he had set in motion. Her breasts heaved as he slipped his arms deeper within her. She hung from the roof of Orlath’s tent swaying back and forth; a morbid pendulum. The scent of death and loosed bowels had long since settled in the High Mage’s tent. Focused intently on his work, Orlath did not notice Tourn’s appearance until the latter gave an audible gag, to what Orlath couldn’t imagine.
“You’re a sick man.” Tourn remarked, placing a hand over his nose.
“Am I? Were this entirely sexual you might be correct. As it is, my actions are purely scientific. I’m endeavoring to create life after death without the powers of necromancy.”
“Why not just resort to Necromancy and spare your arm the stench of shit?”
Adjusting the rune stone within the woman, Orlath sighed. “The practice of Necromancy, much like one of its practitioners, is a horrible liability and, at best, a temporary solution solution. With the proper placement of rune engraved stones I can place a consciousness within the corpse and grant it mobility and perhaps life. Once the right combination and placement of stones occur the world will find itself on the path to a better place. An army of the undead servants and soldiers that would not rot away or fall to pieces over time, quite brilliant, don’t you think.”
“Maybe you’re just insane.” Tourn said, gesturing with the object in his other hand.
“What’s that?” Orlath questioned, not bothering to remove his arm from the dead woman’s backside.
“The Jester brought it, think it might have something to do with this temple Syre’s heading into.”
“Leave it on the table; I’ll take a look at it in just a moment.” Orlath gestured with his bald pate to a scroll laden table in the corner of his tent. “The Jester, you say?”
“Take a look at it now. Yeah. That laughing bastard knows something and I want to find out what it is.” Orlath had doubted that Tourn could look even more dangerous than he did naturally, yet the man surprised him time and time again.
“Fine, if you’re going to pout about it.” Orlath’s arm slid free with a sickening pop and the woman’s body began to swing yet again. Wiping his stained hands on the front of his robes, Orlath took the book from Tourn and gestured the soldier away with a wave of his hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.”
With an annoyed grunt, Tourn left the tent and Orlath tied close the flap. Peering over his shoulder at the corpse dangling in the air, Orlath huffed. It would take him hours to locate the rune stones again and even longer to correlate the proper placement. But the end result will be worth it, Orlath assured himself. Tourn could claim what he wanted about Orlath’s sexual proclivities, but such talk would disappear once Orlath had put an end to slave labor.
Crossing his tent, Orlath washed his hands in a basin of murky water beside his cot and sat down at his table to study the text. The language was of a sort he had never seen before, but, oddly enough, appeared vaguely similar to ancient Xexorian. Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands, the High Mage sighed at the task before him. He would need to translate the text and then make sense of it. Despite the use of magic, it would still take some time to make sense of it. All for what? To confirm what I already know? Orlath didn’t need to read about the temple to know that there was an ancient evil involved. He could feel it in his bones. Regardless, if Syre did slip in over his head, it would be useful to know specifically what the army would be up against. His mage cadre would be useless if the temple’s magic tainted their own. Thus he had little choice but to make haste.
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paradigm - Badminton Enthusiast
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Re: Untitled?
by paradigm on Thu Oct 15, 2009 11:47 pm
SYRE
It was much larger than he had expected. In truth, it was the largest Temple he had ever laid eyes on. The darkness that had blinded them up until this point was held back by two lone torches burning at the gates. The architecture was unlike anything he had ever seen. The grandiose archways and engraved columns of the structure implied design for aesthetic purposes instead of use. Massive stone gates grated against the ground, swinging open of their own accord. Raising a hand to halt the advance of his bodyguards, Syre loosened his sword in its scabbard.
“From here I continue alone.” His voice was strained, his throat clearly filled with fluid. Syre removed a small vial of Orlath’s concoction and downed it before the tickle in his throat could turn into a coughing fit. The mage had become his worst enemy and greatest ally. His potions fended off the debilitating sickness that had taken hold of him, but they had upon Syre a reliance on Orlath and his abilities, something Syre was loath to do.
“Leave yourself indebted to no man.” He murmured. Dropping his cowl down, Syre placed the helm atop his head before slipping the hood back up. “I’ll not be long.”
Ascending the stairs leading into the massive temple, Syre paused. For a brief moment he considered turning look upon his protectors one last time, but immediately disregarded the thought. They were his tools, they could be nothing more.
Clearing his throat, Syre stood in front of the temple’s massive entrance. Soon he would be rid of this cursed sickness and his dreams of conquest would be realized. His steps beneath the archway resounded throughout the temple.
The Djinn waits, Syre reminded himself. He had worked far too long to see his life and strength drained by some cough. It is said the gods shaped man from dust, but I am different. Syre coughed and spat a mouthful of phlegm. No god shaped me. No god can claim me...for no god has the strength.
“I am Syre!” He chuckled as the temple gates began to close. “Learn my name, Djinn. For soon it will be upon the tip of every god’s tongue.” His eyes darkening, Syre moved further into the temple to take hold of his destiny.
It was much larger than he had expected. In truth, it was the largest Temple he had ever laid eyes on. The darkness that had blinded them up until this point was held back by two lone torches burning at the gates. The architecture was unlike anything he had ever seen. The grandiose archways and engraved columns of the structure implied design for aesthetic purposes instead of use. Massive stone gates grated against the ground, swinging open of their own accord. Raising a hand to halt the advance of his bodyguards, Syre loosened his sword in its scabbard.
“From here I continue alone.” His voice was strained, his throat clearly filled with fluid. Syre removed a small vial of Orlath’s concoction and downed it before the tickle in his throat could turn into a coughing fit. The mage had become his worst enemy and greatest ally. His potions fended off the debilitating sickness that had taken hold of him, but they had upon Syre a reliance on Orlath and his abilities, something Syre was loath to do.
“Leave yourself indebted to no man.” He murmured. Dropping his cowl down, Syre placed the helm atop his head before slipping the hood back up. “I’ll not be long.”
Ascending the stairs leading into the massive temple, Syre paused. For a brief moment he considered turning look upon his protectors one last time, but immediately disregarded the thought. They were his tools, they could be nothing more.
Clearing his throat, Syre stood in front of the temple’s massive entrance. Soon he would be rid of this cursed sickness and his dreams of conquest would be realized. His steps beneath the archway resounded throughout the temple.
The Djinn waits, Syre reminded himself. He had worked far too long to see his life and strength drained by some cough. It is said the gods shaped man from dust, but I am different. Syre coughed and spat a mouthful of phlegm. No god shaped me. No god can claim me...for no god has the strength.
“I am Syre!” He chuckled as the temple gates began to close. “Learn my name, Djinn. For soon it will be upon the tip of every god’s tongue.” His eyes darkening, Syre moved further into the temple to take hold of his destiny.
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paradigm - Badminton Enthusiast
- Posts: 42
- Joined: Wed Apr 29, 2009 10:18 am
Re: Untitled?
by paradigm on Thu Oct 29, 2009 10:55 pm
[[Alright, originally I had this nice little short term RP planned in which a great deal of Syre's past was divulged and everyone in the vicinity of the temple ended up trapped in a city of darkness fighting for their lives. Unfortunately, the people who had expressed interest have been unable to post for one reason or another...so, exploits of Syre continued here: awakening]]
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paradigm - Badminton Enthusiast
- Posts: 42
- Joined: Wed Apr 29, 2009 10:18 am
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