[Event] A Great Descry

[Swgrclan 2682]

The sound of battle, warcries and explosions ring from the depths of the red valley which looms over the Orenian Heartland. These noises drone on for hours and days; the product of a great battle, in which men of Saint Lucien and men of the empire wage war with great men of the Eventide who stand tall in plate which is black, whom wield their giant black blades, mauls and maces with a ferverous, pious anger that was only drawn from their faith in the Antediluvian Pantheon. Blood was shed upon the red ground for days, but it did not match the stone which runs crimson for miles beyond the battleground.

Victory was finally attained by the hand of Lucienists and Imperium soldiers as their skill outmatched that of Eventide Darkreaver numbers which ranged in the dozens upon dozens. When they were slain, the eyes of mortal men settled upon the old ruin which had sat idle within the crimson mountains for months now, unattended. The Eventide had coordinated their assault from such a ruin, from it's courtyard -- but why? Why did they gather in such an open vantage point? Strategy? The attempt of claim? Or perhaps a lure, but for what reason is unknown now, for no Eventide men were left alive and in the condition to take prisoner. Only corpses scattered the valley.

They attempted to barge their way into the ruin upon tearing the old rusted gate down with a ram, only for their progress to be halted by a magical barrier of properties unknown; a magical barrier which defied the gravity of the land and threw the forceful attempts to bash it open back into the face of it's attackers. Only one had shown to make affect on the barrier -- an Adunian whom had bore a skill in the mystical Heartfire years after learning it so long ago. The flame of Gods had done what the flame of the Void had not -- it made the barrier flicker, it made it shift, but it did not break it. Only a greater might dealt by Aengulic power would shatter this wall.

All soldiers rallied back to their cities and forts. The night, one born of victory, set upon the Orenian lands. But something stirred within the mountains; the clash of steel and the death-cries of man, religiously insane and empirically loyal, had awoken something. 

Clerics, of the Creator and of Tahariae, found the next morning to be a bright one; one of warmth and fair weather, but it only hid what would come to them as they may have admired what the new day had offered. It was as if the very sun had blinded them; a flashing, painful mirage of gray and white shades flickered across their sight. They could not see. They could not breath. Both a numbing calm and shivering panic would grip all who bore the Clerical powers as whatever force that brought about such frightening sensations would gradually force them into a deep sleep; whether upon horseback, the road or their own home, they would collapse. Their eyes would widen despite their sleep and bear a neutral, gray light which over-encompasses the sight of their own eyes. They would sleep once more, and they would dream.

The dream would be a fair one; hazed with a complete impassiveness. It bore a light, but not one of gold, and not one that cast a shadow of underlying malice. It was... neutral. It brought about both anxiety and calm which brought each dreamer a strange sense of idleness in each of their minds. But suddenly, the voice came, and it was there that it spoke with both a tone forgiving and cruel, both irate and calm, both passive and frantic. Great images flashed through the minds of each Cleric which inhabited the land of the Fringe.


Ỹ́̎ͨͦ͏̯̦o͖͎̳̳͉̪͗ͨŭ̷̑ͬ̾̆̊ ͈̰̟̤̲͙̣̍̓̿̉̒̈͆l̤̫̥̠ĭ̸̭̪̀͗̂̔̓é̗̪͍̬̪̮̞̿͗ ̼̩̰ͦͭ͊̅i̱͂n͚̺̯̑̓̋̈͞ ̺̹̲̱̣͇͓̀͊͛͟ŵ̀́a͌͊̆ͧ͌i̦͉͉̞̓ͧ̍͗ͯ͝ͅt̲̲ͭͨ̈͋́̂ ̶̗̻̳͙͍̩̬ͩ̂lͮͧ͏͚͔̩͎ik̦̟̲ͥe̍̂̃ ͓̬̙͋͛t̪̝̓̾̐̊̑͡h̘͍̙̞̖̦͋̓̿eͣ̉̍̈̉ ͦͯb̘̦ͪ͑̽̕ḽ̵͕̖̟͍̭̑̈̽ȋ̲͋ṋ̙̱͐̏ͧͯͦ͟d̡̝̘̫͚͕̖ͯ͊ͤͪ̚ͅ.̧̲̼̩͓̟̊̀͑̅̂̓̈́
̆ͩ͏̜̗̤͖̖͉ͅ


͍͔͙̪͎̓̕ͅT̝̲̗͊ͬ̎ͪͬ̓͜h̵̙͚͛e͈͓̟͕̺ͣ ̩͇͔̝ͮ́̀̑̌̓̄͠nͥ͏͇̦̰̖̹̥à̛̩̮̩͙͂̚t͕̞̎̑͛͛̓̄͝i̥͕̗̹̯̿̀́̀v̖̼̪͋͂ͫ̀i͞ţ̬̤̪̙̜͓̔̎̅̎̍̽̐y̪͔̓̈́̅ͥ̎ ̧͕͙̜ͦ̅ͅͅo̵̝͚͈f̉̔͆̽͞ ͎̔͑̓͡a͒́ ͨ̔c̗͕̭̣̦ḥ́ͩ̀̔̇i͙ͭ̑l̛̟̃d̰͍̪̕;̲̖͇̳͎̃ͩ̿͠ ͪͥ̑ͭô̤̯ͩ̐̇͐̏n̫͖̭͇̮̤̜ͮͮͨ͝ẹ̖͇͎͉̃͒͊̑͒͒͌ ̴̦̻̤t͚ĥ҉ḁ̩̺̺̩͚̺̒̏t ͯ̎͌ͥc̭͙͡â̱̙̖̲͖̘ͩͫn̠̜̪̮n͛̈ͭͦ̔̍o̖ͫͯ͡t̨͎̣̙̰̮͐ͅ ̤̟̽̒ͅse̺̳̘ͩ͊ͪ͂̑͞é̘̹ ̘͕́t͍̟̻͉ͬ͂̈́̐̀͜he̢̦͕̖̠ͤ͋̎ͩ̈ͭ̎ ̔ͯͩ͏͖͎̼͓t̴̜̜̱̙͊͗̂̍ͦ̓rͯ͋̂ͤ̏̅̄u̢͕̰̭ͭ̂̑̌ͥ̒̈́ͅë̸̬̥̙̟̣̮ͨ̊ ̧ͬ̿ͥ̈́͗s̢̥̭̣͎͈͍̳͐̄̉̍́h̴̘̦͑̊̍ͩa̷̗̥͔͓ḑ̈ͨ͐ͥ̇ó̯̮͕ͩ̄̏͂ͯw̨̭͓̬̒ͫ̄ͥ̈́̚ ͚̳͚̠͔̮͎̓͒ͧ͡o̱͎̥͔̊ͬ͊͂f̛̠̏͆̌̐̍̈́ ͗t̪̟͓͔ͬ̇͡h̼͖̘̉̓̎̑ͬe̠͍̙̣̼ͤ ̖̹̹͚͍̰̹́ẘ̜̭̩̖̈o̤͐͆̆̔̾̽r̦̠͒̑ͤl̺͇̰̆̌͑d̢̻̘̖̳̬͉͓ͮͫ̄̏̚.͍́


A shifting visage of red, of crimson flashed before their eyes. It slowly shaped-- it became defined, an element in which one can focus upon. It shaped into mountains, and then shaped into valleys, and then shaped into structures which focus was forced foremost upon.




̖̦̃ͤ̉B͔͍̉ͮ̓̓ͦ̽̅ű̺̰͂͊̌̄ͅt̹̳̪̜̬͇͒̽̎ͩ̉̑͘ ̜͇d̴̍ͨ̃ͭo̻̮̮͇̮̙͌͆̈́̈̒̉̀͞ͅ ̢͖̭̠͒ͫͧ̒͗̓ͥn̵͎͉͍̮͚̞̓̆ͤoͮ͛ͪͫͤ̅̓ẗ̷̈́ͮ̅̅ ̸̠̪̟̃ͮ͆f͕̫͇̩͇͓̪̋̐r̴̘̟̭̜̤̺̘͌ͨe̻̐̑̇t͊ͦͫ͡,̩̳̑͗ͅ ̆͏̹l̻ͣ͊i̦̠͙̫̫͍͌t̜̣ͦ͢t͚̥́͋͛͐͊͠l͇͉͈̂ͤ̌̿ͫ̚͞ẽ̘̣ͪͫ͂͆ͧ͐ ̪̟̤ͨ̊ͬ͛̋̑ͬo̹̘̺̲̯͔͖͒̌̈̈́ͪͬ͐ň͑͐̿e͔̦͉͙͇͉̿̆͑ͮ̌̈ͮ͘.͎̺̝͐ͮ̚͝ ͖͕̪́͆̈̍͊Y̧̜͍̮͚̔́o̯͍̩̱͓̕ͅű̢̯̹̱ͪ ̊̒ͥ͏͍̟͓̩̞̖ä͖̝̹̮́͊̔̎̋r̼̻̩͓̐̿ė҉̩̠̻͚̞͉͚ ̙̱fͪ͂ͪ͊i̭̺̮̠͈̻ͮ̈́́r̠̪͉̖̫͒̐ͧͅȇ̩͔̤̠͍͉̺̅̅; ͍̑ͬ͋ͮ̾͝ȳ̳̺̙͔̞͂͐ͭ̾̂̚ỏ̈ͬ̑͜u̠̱͎̭͚̟̅̃ ͚͉ͦͧͦ̏̏̊͊a̬͕̝͙͚̲̔͛̏̌ͣ̚ͅṙ͉̮̝̱͗̔͗̈́e̗̟̖͊͠ ̯͕̬͚͇̱̯̏ͧ̉ͧa̮͓̩̭ͭ̎ ͖̻̗̝ͥl̃̽̂̂̽̾ͬi̮͇̹̠͙̩̺ͥ̈́ͨ̉̿͆o̴̳̗̗̲̪ͬ̿̌͑̉̈n̰͆̾̂͠,̠̳̦̦͇ͤ̓ ͏̘̰̠̟̠̫w̢͐͒h̡̖̓͆̀̊̑ͧ̆i̞̊͢c̻̼̤̟̲̞h̵̫͎̻̓̔ ̴͇̖̏ͯ̿ͫ̏̽ͬͅv̴̞͈̗͍̟̝̘ͭ́͐͛͋ͫ̐ǎ͈̂͐̃̍n̜̣͈͑̂̇͂g̻͂̊̾ͦͧu̖͋ͪ̍̚á̋͏̹͙̣̦͈̠r̢̪̥̱̽̈́d̫̯̞̦s̩̙̝̼̝͌̄͊ ̩̩̼ͦ̄i̶͙̗̤̣ͫ͒́̾͐̓̏ͅt̳̞̱̣̖̋̿ͣ'̭̪͙̘͖̓͛s̙̙̰͚͝ ̼̗̖̪̭̣͚̄ͣ͊̓ͦ̓̚͟p̵͕̝̠̱̭̱͔ͤr̜̝̰̟̘͇̝ͫͫͬ̇̐͞i̋́ͣͩ̓̆̇͠d̹̥̞̥̬ͧͯ̈́ẻ̻̯̙̱̪̲̹͋́.̞̳̜̲̙̪ͤͦ̀͌͠ͅ

̜̤̤͉͓ͬ̑́̑̄̀
͓͍̼͎̲̬͊
̾
̪ͯͩͮ̏͂ͦŶ̞̲̬͙̘̝̪ͨͫͭ́o͐̀ͭͦ̕ȗ͝ ̼̼̰͗̒ͅw̤͐ͣͨ̇̋͗e͖͇̠͋͑̑ͬ̉ͬ́͡ͅrͣ͛̊͋҉̥̺ë́ͧ͂ͩ͢ ̈́ͮ͐̋d̙̟̝̦̟̭r̹͎̜̞̜̠̱ͥͦ̀͂͋̉͘a͎͓̝̜̠̭̺̓͑͋̐̒̿ͦw͙͖̼͖̬̎n̥̩͙͒ͭ͢ ̛̜͙̜̟̪̇̒̄̓̿ḟ҉͎̫͈̘̺ŕ̫̖̝̭͓̰̣ͫo̰͍̜͇̙̠͇ͦͪ̉̀m̂҉̺ ̳͓̖̃̽͒̿t̡̟͆h̘͔̣ͭ͋͆́ͧͬe̺̘͉͚ͬ̃͝ͅ ̞̟͔̹̳ͣ͐̾̓̎̒́w̡̰̖ͣͣͪ̚õ̟ͤ̏ͯm̮̬̺̤ͣ̋̌́̓̾̈́͢b̜̬̭̝̫ͭͤ̎̉̓ͅ ̨͇̠̦͎͎̥̿̍͛͒̒ͥͯṱ̵͎̿ͬ̈́ͤͥ̃ͅo͐ͥ͊ͦ ̗̓ͦ̀͌́e̛͇̩̣͒ͯn̋ͫ́ͤ̀ͧ̚d̡ͫ͒̇ ̻̩͂̋p͒̄̿̊̂ͪ҉r͉̰͈̩̣̰̥̈ͨ̍̓́ȏ̼̰̋̒͂̒̀̅p͍̜͙̻̼͓͉͛̌̋̌ͨ̒ĥͧ̎̂̚e̜͙̜ͥ̐̽͆̈́͑c̓́̀̄̍͊̒͏̞͉͖͎̪̫̯i̮͚͓̘͖ͨ̽̔͆͠ͅe̩s̶̲̮̪ͅ ̖̦͂ͯ̽̂ͯ̂ͣạ̥̞ṋ̯̱͠d̸̳̤ ͔̤͓̣̀́̐͜s̻̦͔̟̒ͨ̾ͭ̿̍t͒͐ͥ҉͕a̛̺̞̜̽̐̇̑̃̈́ȑ̲͕̃͋ͫ̑͘ͅt̵͋ͭ͛̚ ̛̫̱̭͙͑̿̑̆ͥ̚l̵e̼͎͛̐̅g͇̳̲̝̼̋̓͛̌̒̀a̻̙̯̠̫͉ͮ̽̂ͮc͔͉͕͊ͮ̎i̛͕͎͓̼̤̭̒̏͋̊ë̘̯̻́̓͛̂ͫs̬ͣ͐̒̚ͅ.͚ͮ̄ͤͤͨ͐ͪ





͇̔ͦT͇̬̘̮̩ͨh̭̣̱̘͝e̲̹̫̤̲̎͛̀ ͋̈̍҉̖̜p̯̘͎̱͎͗ṙ̞̿ͪ̕o̮ͪ̇̀͑̽p͉̻͙̊ͯ̀ͅh͈͓̘̰̤͇̾͆̉̏̓ͅḙ̭͙̘̤͓͆̎̑̆c̯̯̣͞i̔̽҉̫̙eś̟̝͕̯͖̼͖ ̝̙̅͛̽̀h̬̗̤a̜̪̥̓̌ͩͭͅṽ̪̬̎͑e̝̯̎ͥ̈̾ͅ ͓̹̜̝͚͕̯y̹̫̿̓e͇͊͐̅̀t ̧͕̬̤̦͈̯͓ͪͮͪ͒̊͗t͊ͥ͗͌͠ô̶ ̯̬̰́ͪ͡h͓̱̘͗ͦ̋ͦ̈a̡̦̗͕̺͑̆̈ͫ̈́ͮ̌vͫ̒̋̃ͯ̊̔e̙͇͇̱̘̫̳͂̽ͮ͛̃̍̇ ̣͇̪̹͍̩̤̇ͧ̅ͧͭͬě̱̣̼̹̟͔̏̅̒ṋ̥̳̦̑d̠̺̞̹̥̥̆ͬ̂e̡͎̦̗̐̚ḋ͎̘̳̱͈͖̺͂.̦̱̠͂ͯͧ̋̎̏̚̕
͇̫̭̦ͥ
̵̥͓͈͋
̤̏͌̇̉ͮ̓̓
̐̋Ṱ̀h̵́ͪͦ͐̄e͎̼̬͉̼̲̅ͫ ̸̩̗̗̺͉͛̉n̯̙̙̰̬̥ͅò̤̩͈͙̩͙͋͠t͙̣͚̮̤̟̯̒͆ͨͣ̄͆̂i̦̹͕̻͖͚̓̌͘ǒ̟̬͙̳̃ͥ̋ͭͅͅn̥̝̲̪͔̰ͨ ̜̜̱̮̋o̠̬̬̪̯̩f̩̳̩̐ͯ̄ ̵̻͕̯͕͔̲̜ͯ͊̇l̫̣̜e̽ͥ̂͒͏g͐ͫ͛ͧͦȧ̹̹̔ͨ̾͒͐͑͢c̓i̛ͬͮͮͮͣ̚e͊͋͌̽̋̇ș͓͔̳̱͔̦̌ͫ͑̄̈̒̚ ̢̪̜̙͉̭̭̈́̿̓̓ͮ̀ͣl̸̳͚͉̘̽ͫͫ̽̎i͚͍̩͙̦͍̽͑ͮ̅ͬ͌͟ẽ͈͗ͪ͐̄s̵̻͍͇̝͒͌ ̮̖͍̙̘̩͌d̮̩͗͋ͫ͗̚͠o̝̻̘̭͕̰̝̿ͪ͐̎ͮr͕̪̬̳͊ͭͪͫͫ̽m͈͎̳̫͔̠͉̓͑͗̏̌̉͘a̪̯n̸̳͚̩̙̬̓̉ͬ͌̈́̔̚t̷͔̖̗͙ͩ̍̊ͅͅ.͈̤̣̯̭̐̆̾ͦ̒̀





̻͔̐͘A̸͖̬̓͌̅ ͤ̂͊̂̏̂ͅd̨͉͇̖͍̥̺͈̅̏͒ͩàr͓̘̩̗̆̆̈́̈̀ͧk̵̭̖̺̝͔͔ͭͣͮ͊ͭn̳̭̥̼̑ͫ̅̇ͩ͑̚ͅe̳̼̮̓͛̌̈̑͂̚s̠̼̯̦̹͎̩̃̋s̰͚̼̟̊ͬͭ̓̌̌̚ ̶͔̝͈̠ͯl̟̳ͤ̆̐i͎̖̯ͪͨ͞ṇ̻̰̦͛̉́g̵̗̣ͤe̶͇r̨̳͔̹ͧ̽̄́s̊͗ͯ̈́ͯ̃ ̥̬ͫ̿̊ͨ͠i̜͇͓̎̽n̲ͪͯ̃̐ ̡̹̭̻̾̍ͫa̯̓̋͂̅̉ͮ ͓̘̺̰̮́̐̋̀p̩͢l̸̻̩̣̬̮͉͋̎̓̅ͦ̊a̜͓̮ͣ͊ͮ̇̒ͬ̕c̼͚̟̰̠͂̇͆͛̕e̗̓̅ ̸̬ͤ̎̈́ͬw̺h͍̞͕ͣ͛̇͂ͨė̡͕͆ͧͮ̃n̢̩̩c̛̙̠͈͈̦̜̳̾͋̑e̵̮̹̼͔̐͐ ̟̥̊̈̉c͕͉̘r̦͟ị͎͙̓m̬ͣ̋ͪ͋ͮͦ͐ŝͦͬ̕o̡̘̥̤͖̜̥͐ͫͤ̎n̘̼̞̱̹͇̭̋̾ ̧̀̈́͐͋̏͒w̥͙̠̳̜͔̘ͩã̊l̗̺̾l̂͗͂̓ͯ͂̏͠s͏̫ ̽̐ͧ̊̆ͨ҉͍̼̻͖̼̯͉t̙͓̠̞͉̒̈̾́o̺͡ẅ̡̜͕̙̩́̈̇̍̿e͕͔̤̭̬̟ͬ̎ͤͅr͇̟̘̟̞͒ͦ͗̿ͬͪ ̱̳̫̱͌̑̓ͧͩ̚̚ḥ̬͍̫̜͔̾ͅi͌͌̂̃ͤͤͤ͟g̭̼̜̺̳͍̰ͭ͂ͬ̓͊ͣ͆hͫ̑.̬̜ͥ͊̓̃
̹̼̳̩ͤͮ̕
̤̘̍
͈͎͚̱̥̳͔̊͊ͨ̓͂͠
̗̰̗͖̋͗̈́̊I̿́ͫ̚͡ţ̟̊ ̧̣̓d̴̿̿̿ͮweͬ̀̇ͤl̷͈l͓̰̽͂̀s̫ͥ͌̕ t̜͎͕͎͉ͧh̢̠̻͇̝̥̎̓̔ͭͩ̚e̞ͨ͊̊̈̀͛͜ ̱͖̘͓e̒̆͡ͅa̙͉͚̬ͩ̓̌ͭr͉̠̱͉̭̣͍̒ͮ͗̋͑t̡̞̺̦̼̼̊̂̊ͪh̸̗͓̺͌ͅ ̴̹̼͇͍̖͍̹ͮ͑̒͋̃m̡͈̝̬̻̪ͯ̈̐̽ͅo̱̳̞̹̿̇ͤ̊ͭ̚s̭͎̳̟̩̝̟͗ͫͧ̽t̨̓ͬ̅͛ͧ̽ͤ ̤̰̟͚d̙̜̰̥͒̄͡eͨͬͨ̿̌ͮ̑͢ęp̛͕̣ͣ̇̌̔̒̚;̜̖̺̹̥̦ͨ́ ̫͖͓̫̽ͬ̊̈́s̰̏͐̀e̻͇̫̻̝̠͋̆ͮ͛͂e̳̟̓͡ͅk͈͉̫̠ͣͥ́̇ͬ̊͡ȉ̺̪̻̖̼̜̫̒͆n̙͎̰̘͈ͦ̚g̼̦̓̐ͨ͂ ̦͇̜̣͉ͪͦ̌̓̽̄c͚͚̈͆̀̍̋̕h͈̽ͬͤ̔a̝͕̲̐l͚͇̣̲̠͈ͣ͛͒͐̆ͅl̫̼̙̤̦̂ͨ͗ͫ̎̽̊͡e̸͉̥̜̮͙̦ͦ̂͒́̑n̛͙͔g̟̼̺̐͑̒̓̽͂ͪͅȇ̘̩̘̦̩,̞̺͇͔̖̐̂͊̐͗̎̋ ͓̻̪͉̼̤̙p̦͈̹̹̳͗͋̆ͬoͭͭͨ̍̀̚wͮ̀̾̔͏̘ͅe̡͈͚͐͑̾͗ř̙͍͕ͨ,̶̯̠̤̲̹ͤ ̫̰̩͉̜̟̮̉̽a̎͋҉͙̳̦͕̩͕̖n̓͗̇̈́́̏̋d̤͛ ̠̋́ͩb̳̫̹̻́̽̒͋̿ͮl͖͕̪͔̯͒͛̔̆̚oͫ̇ͧ͛͊̊̒҉͖͓ȏ̠͖̠̥͂͢ḍ̷̈ͯ̾.͕̓̏ͬ̆
̥̳̦̒̽͗͗ͅ




̗̭̮͓͌ͮ͌͝M̦͍̜͕̃o̯͓̱̮̙̼̹ͭ̑̓͛r͉̲ͬͬͭͣͤͨ̃ṭ͔̩̞͔͇̪͗͡a̝̻̫̻̬ͨ́́̓͊l̬̖̘ ̡̼ͮs̴̙̈ͨ͌̆̒ͩt͓̬͎̲̀̿̃e̬̯̪͙̮̳̔̅ͩ̌e̠ͮ͂ͨͪ̓̆͛ḻ̝ͪ ͚̙̱̘͎͕̹̀c͕̪̣̈́ͥ̃͒ͦͫ͡ą̜̱̝ͨͭ̇ͣ̉͌n̤̯̱̹̮͓̩̎n̗͍̲̖̞̘̣ͨ̎́o͌t̬͌ͥ̂̂͝ ̺̙ͯͣ̍̎ͅm̙͕̫ͧ͝a̖͗ͫͅt̡͕̦̫̎̓c̊̐̊͑ͪ̔͋̀h̻̺̣̮̪̮̳̀͐͟ ̨͚̟̅̽ͭͮị̧̭̭̋́̅̾̎t̤͕̠̗ͧ̈̿̎̒͊ͦ͞'̶͇̳͔̀́͗̌ș̸̤̬̺̳͇̽ͣ̐͒͛̃ ̳͍̣̯ͬs̨̤̒́͗́̎̂ͫw͚̙͍ͤ̍ͣ̍ͫ͘a̟̒͑͗̑͆͢y͓͈̻̻̋ͤ̅͊̐.̗͈͈͙̪͇̱ͤ̐͌ͯ͗̂ ͆ͣͨͦͪ҉̗̥̝̭̮̫̞Y͏o̜̘̙͎̣̺̐͢u͕̪r̷͓ͦ̇ͥ ̴̳̳̰̱̟̞̗ḷ͒͌̈́̃͊ͩi̷͖͈̟̐͋͐̋̽ͮg̵̐͑̇̆̉ͭ̍h̡̤͙̫̬̪̳̼̉̉͗t̘̱͕̞̪̱̫͐̆͊̆͂ͩ ͎̪̫͈̫̪͌ͯͫͤḿ̜̖̖̩ͅa͒͌͒̔̃͐҉͚̘͙̙̠͍̘y̵͔̿̅̎͗̅̍͋ o̶̖̾̑̉ͬ̓n̺̲̞̺̐̈́͗̃l̙̬̣̱͚͖͑̈̓̂̎̍̕ÿ̈ͬ̒ͥͨ̃҉͔͔͇͈̣͇ ̃̃w̙͕̞̹̝̩͓̆ͭ̚ọ̜͍̀̿̍͘u͎ͪ̉ň͉̗̮̗̬͉͓͊͐͊ͤͮd̜̯̓͂̐ͬ͞ ̲͔̗̤̭̖ͦ̓̓̑i̧̟͕̙͖͙̹̣͌ͫ̉t̙͈͚͕̮̘̅͘.̟̳͈̠ͪͥ́̎ͤͤ̋͝
͈̟̺͉͎͗ͨ̐ͨ̓
̳̖̟̺ͫ͊
̯̳̩̺͊͋ͧͤ́͛
̺̞͇̰͇̪͐͋̒͡O̬͓͓̣͛̎̋͋̚͘n̪̫̬̦̘͇̟l͛̕y̟̲̺͚̝ͅ ̡ͣt̹̟̰̱͘ḧ̟̺̹̣́̾͟e̳͈͍̟̠ͬ̐ͭͤ́ ̝͕͉ͤ̅̄̿ͯ̂̂S̗͕̭̥̥͓̄̓͑̂͋h̠̯̞̯ͧ͘a̶̻̮͐ͣͬ̎d̼̥̾̓ͮ͑ͯ̐͐o͙͖͙ͧ̏͒ͤ̚̕w̴̬͍͕̯̯ͣ̌ͫ̽̎r͇̕e̛͇͇̟̱ͦ̿ͬ̿̽̎̊ạ̗̅ͣͬͪ͆̀̚v҉͚̦̲̜ë́͆̇͆ͦͮř̢̦̫̘̣̝̪̽́ͩ͐̍ ̼̘̙́ͦͤͯ͆ḿ̡̭ā̿ͪỳ͌ͪ̐ ͎̺̣̠̄r͍̯̯͐ë̛̗̮́n̓̌̀̋҉͚̯dͤ̓̆̐ i̷̝͍̭̹̟ͥͤ͂̾͛̓t̲̫̯̍͗̃ͨ̿ͪͯ'͔̳͈͗̌͛͛̈̉ŝ̵̥̰̘̦͕̎ͯͧͮ͆͐ ̺̜̆̀s͇͙̺͙̜̞̽̎͂̓ͪͅḿ͔̮͔̘̳͎̪̀ố̳͍̙̯̝̊̒̎͑g͑͌͛͝ ̡̏o̩̤ͤ͒̀ͤ̒ͧf̮̱͙̥̻̻͙ ̫͇̘͕̮̝̺ͭͩ̚͘s̞̣͕͙̾͝p̜̥̋̆̀̄̎ͯí̩̠̪̗͌̑t͖̺͚̘͓͕̝ͯ̆͒̓̍́ê̯̲̥͊ͣ̂̈́;͎̥̮͎̺̅ͮͩ̾̀̄͢ ̰̹͍̫͙̄͊̈́ͬͅi̪̖͓͙͕͌͒̌̀̈́t̩̭̃ͤ̓̈̃̎'̖͓͎̪͎̔ͯͯ͑͌s̡̙̫͚̐ͣͪ̏̏ͅ ̦̱̜̰̪̝͒̽ͭ̓̀m̨̜̝̆͛ͯá̻͉̦̠̱̘͈ͤl͖̇̑́̒̚͘i͖̝̥͙͕̜ͭ͗ͩ̃̕ͅc̸͇̥̻̠͕̭̦e ̷̱̩̒̋̍̓͗ͫa̻̞b̦͍̣͖ͧ̋a͖̳̖̽͋͗̆͘s̤̜̰̾̊͋̄̊̾ͅk͙̝͖ͬ̒ͭͧ͑ͭ̈́ ̥̙̣̖̺̊̍̉͒ͧ̆̚i͓͚̠̳̙̤̒̌̔͐͐̚͢ͅn͕͉͕̎͌̓ͧ͛̀ͬ͢ ̣̺̰̘̘̦̟͊̾͑̀̍ͤs̻̗̘̿ͣ̊̃̓͝h̵͓̍a͓̱̓̽̆ͮd́ëͦͣ҉̗̭͈̩̼.̣̘͉̞̖̻ͬ̂ͮ̓͌̊
̥̭̋̌ͮ̇ͥ
̧͓̭̯͕̞͑̇̾͑ͪ

̦̙̫̳͇ͬ̍͗̊̚O̺͙̩͓̲̝͙ͬ͛̏ͮͭͫ̀n͂̈͑͛̇͑҉͓̭l̦͙̽̀̿̔͊̒ẏ̨͈̳̠̙̩ͩ͊̿͛̓ ̴͚̼̲t̃̃͋̀ͦͣ̓hͪ̕e̹͒̋͐̑͡ ̴͙͎̳͙͒̄̈́ͣ̾ȩ̲̖͇͇̫͓̭̂͗͐̄ͩ̌ͤǹ̦̻̲̦l̵̘̰̠̮̭i̻̜͉̟̘͚ͦ̂̚g̰̼̰͗ḥ̲̌̓͜t̺͈̪ͯ͂ͫ̉ͥ̒͂e̓͒̕ñ̖͕̩̗͓̼͔͗ͫ̿͛̄̕é̦̉̾d̹̼̝̗̘͔̲̾̆̆ ̨̫̮̜̤̇m̩̩ͪ͋̊ͬ̕a̖͔̪̙̗ͯ̑ͧ̍̃̎̚ͅy̞͓̙͉͕̯ͦ̈ ̻͉͒͗́͊̃͒̅́p͍̯̘̊̉͊̓ă͙̲͖͉̮̺̐͌ͨ̚s͖̜͍̖̫̣̎̐ͭ͝ś̠ ͎̞̞̗̥̼͊̏̿ͩ͟ͅt̶͈̺͔̬͖̺̲ͯ̚h̵̭̦̲͕̀ͬͮͩ̉̽ͫo̵̊ü̷ͮ͂͆̑͋ͅğ̹̭̼̼̌̓̈́ͦh͉̻̥̩͍̱̝͌ͮ̓̽͋̃ ̧̥̝̟̾̐͗͒̚t̸͊̋ͩhͤ̋e͖ ̪̮͚̬̙͈̫ͥ͑ͬ̃ͫ̚͢c̛̪͚̻̯̫̟̦r͍̬̻̜͔͎̗i̶̻̠̳̪m͉̿̆͛̋̎͒̏š̹̝̟̺͙͑̌ͣ͑ͣͥ̀o͕̩̬͊ͦņ͆̊ͩ̋̍ ̪̻̈̃̄ͤ̇̇ͅw̰͔ͧȧ̓̏͏̼̜l̶͇̦̐̅ͪͤ͑ͪĺ̳̻̮̺̲̭̇ẽ̜̣͎̫̹͍͇́d̜̝̝͍̗͊ͤ̽͂ͩ̒͋ ͙̪̮̠̣̙v͈ͦ͆̀̄̾ͨ́a̝̥͓͜l̜̺̩̘̦ͨ̾ͣ̑̐l̃̌͊͋̐́̊e̔̈y̼̱̖̲̺̰͊̾̾ͮ̚͟ͅ.̤̑͋̋̉̏̎͠
͎͒
̢̯̦̪͆̇́ͬͮ̇

͈̋̿O͙͓͔͖͉̝̫͑̾ͨͨ̾́n̰ͪ̌̏ͭĺ̦͙y̱͓̻̣̱̎̍ ͈̥͛͗͂̉t̜̼͈h̰͉̎ͦͭͤ̒͊e̶̱̟̖͖͔̰̓ͣ͂͆̌ ̘̠̯̪̖ͦͭͣ̇̏͒ͩͅp̥͘ů͇̽ͥ͡ṟ̛̬ͭ͐̀ẹ̬͖̳̈́̽̓̈́͆̂̑ͅͅ.ͬ̋ͪ͏̬͚ ̧̗̦̥̙̝ͭ̂̽͆͛̓ͪT̡̪̖̻̰̲̐͑ͣ́ͬȟ̓̅e͛͒͂̏͏̝̟͍̲ ̙̻̦̾̿͠ͅk̶͕͙͎̞̺̻ͮ͐ͭ̿̿͗ͧẽ͚̪̗̞͉͔̖ͥ̅ͬ͗e͉̙͓̟̗̬ͦ͆̇͊n̥ͤ̊ͫ.̙̖͙̳̗̣̹ͧ͗ͫ̑̊ͤ ̘̲͔̋̍ͤ͟T̛̥͇͔̪̦h̳͚̱͕͂ͯ̃̚e̵ͨ̿͋ͩͭ ̯̯̯̝̞̙̪̍̎́̕k̻͖̪̜̞͗̏̊n̯ͫo͎̱̗͖̐ͦ̌̄͑̐̿̕w͚͈̲̗̳̮͔̑i̇ͩͪ̃ͪͮ҉̬̖̤̻̘̬n̝̱͔̯͕̰̮ͨ̌̽ͦ͆ͮͦ̀g̣̠̭̣͚̗͇.̼͙̠͛̍͗͂͛ͫ͂





͇̣̝͐̈͗̂́̅ͤ͡C̲̅ͤ̀̔ͩh̥̗̹̳̃̉͜ḁ͖ͨḽ̉ͯ͋̑̚͠ḻ̢͚̯̯͉̀ͣ̈́ͬͭe҉̗̼͇̹͙n̰̱̖̺͊ͯg̪̜͛̓̃̋͛̕ė̖̲̩̪͎̈́̒̎̈̚ ̪͚͉͎ͭͪ̽̓ͅH͐̿͋ͯͫî͚̗̦m̱̼̹̼̥͖.̣͇̟͍̤̟̓̉


With each defined, focused flash, with each word, they seemed to echo; ringing about the slumbering mind of every Cleric which was gripped by this unforeseen power. It all rapidly flashed and boomed through their head as if a great warhorn, all collecting into a single ring which would drone within their minds before suddenly stopping -- and it is at this point that all who were granted this vision would awaken; to be given time to contemplate on whatever otherworldly force had visited them and what it messages imply.

[[ I hope today's event was fun for those who attended, mostly being Imperial and Lucienist members. Remember -- this vision is for Creator Clerics and Order Clerics only. Unless they would spread word for their further action, the event planned would only be for those who would come to the red mountains. Said event will be organized amongst those interested soon. ]]

[3Pac 104]

((Damn swgr you have so much swgr.))

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 15456]

((Great Event! I look forward to participating in this storyline!))

[Ventusyr 233]

((Great read with excellent music choice. I love Zimmer and it was very fitting for the post.

 

Really, really looking forward to this. Seems like an exciting event, and challenging Him with a cleric who can only make a little blue light should be fun! ))

[Jake the Dog 290]

*Eyes open with a deep breath. Jakir having been lucky by being inside when the vision struck. Quickly gets up and moves to his desk. Many thoughts and feelings running threw his mind before he calms them down.*

 

"Guess the darkness won't give the light a break. Time to gather my brothers and sisters to deal with this problem. Tahariae protect us in this time of darkness."

 

*He arises to seek out his fellow Clerics to try and work out a plan.*

[Snake Plissken 637]

[Fun event, looking forward to seeing where all this Cultist/Void/Eventide stuff goes. Thanks swgr!]

[Ricky 321]

Far away across the Fringe a man sits in his cave, his beard rough and overgrown, his well-known scar faded to nothing by clerical healing, his head paladin armour lays against the wall. Beside him are journals and histories protected by him for so long. His gold and Iron infused blade sits on his lap as he utters words to a power above. As night draws in outside the feeling inside his mind grow too strong to bear. Rickard Ireton removes his Parka he places on an all too familiar tabard, over this armour with a sign he was once proud to ware and the sword and tools of the feared Paladins.

 

As the suns last light disappears a lone figure is seen at the entrance to a cave his hood up, a new motive, a new fear consumes him. “Something is not right, the world is changed. I have to find out, I have to find Daniel.”

[Agith 224]

Inhaling a sharp breath, Cir'dian jolted to life. He exhales a heavied sigh as an immense ache consumes his thoughts, bringing his hand up to his forehead and closing his eyes.

 

"What...." is all he exclaims, eyes scanning the empty bedroom before resting upon the unfilled space beside him on his sleeping mat. Cir frowns, resting his hand over it for a brief moment before leaning forwards and pulling to his feet. He makes his way over to the various gear set up off to the right, kneeling down to pull on the padded shirt, followed by grasping onto the cuirass once filled with the soul of Aelor, the dreadknight. Cir runs his hand over its surface, sighing

"I hope you found peace..Aelor." he remarks before pulling the black iron chest piece onto his body, followed by strapping the variety of tanned leather components to his shoulders, the process as usual somewhat difficult to do alone. Cir the pulls the metal vanguards over his arms, and covers his legs in the worn tanned hide plating. Tying the his shortsword to his side and strapping his shield to his back, he steps outside and makes for the temple.

[John Ivory 4546]

Ivo dusts his arms off after the onslaught, barely escaping with his life.

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.