Meeting with Fraurkû

[Wizzar 481]

A Witch Doctor's Journey:

 

It was no longer the thick, verdant canopy of the forest that drowned out the beams of light. Instead the silvery-gray ashes that enveloped the area casted a shadow across the mostly barren land. Their deathlike grayness lingering in the air, sticking to all that it touches. The hobgoblin pressed through the scorched forest, coughing and wheezing as he settled against the blackened husk of a tree. Slowly, he descended to sit on the blackened ground where he’d raise his elongated claws into the air before thrusting his hand down into the ashen dirt. Beads of sweat fell from the novice witch doctor’s brow as he proceeded to carve a suitable pit. Satisfied, the shaman wiped his forehead of sweat, a gray paste smeared across his features.

 

 

The hobgoblin shaman placed previously gathered wood and foliage into the pit, he lifted a piece of flint and struck it with a rock. He repeats this process until a spark ignited the foliage setting the makeshift fire pit ablaze. With a nod of approval, the hobgoblin retrieved his wrapped cactus green, using the fire to light one end. He then inhaled a few deep breaths of the psychoactive drug, his posture relaxing against the burnt tree trunk. After a few moments, he shifted his form forward to be closer to the fire and began his worship.

 

“ILZGUL OB TRAMUG, KOZ-UK PUKHLUG” The shaman’s eyes rolled back into his head “LUP’TRAMUG, LUP’XAAKT. NORK-HON GORTHÛZ TRAMUG” Slowly, his body sank closer to the ground, his neck dipping to the side as he loses consciousness. His soul transferred somewhere else…

 

An intense vibration sent through the ground animated the shaman, his eyes fluttering open as he regained consciousness. His body was submerged in red sand that appeared to stretch as far as his vision could see. Looking upwards, he was surprised to see not one, but three blazing suns spread across the sky, their heat roasting the desert below. From the distance, a loud clittering sound could be made out as a storm of sand slowly moved closer to the hobgoblin. Squinting, he could make out an army of black armored figures marching in his direction. Some among the ranks rode enormous red-brown scorpions.

 

 

 

 

Before the hobgoblin could process the sight, his instincts forced him onto his feet and into a sprint in the opposite direction of this unearthly horde. He ran until he was out of breath, believing he had created distance between the army.  However, when he looked back he realized his efforts were fruitless and no progress had been made. He repeated this process for hours, moving in various directions but the horde always remained in view, moving towards him. 

 

Severe exhaustion and dehydration brought a feeling of impending doom, forcing him into a desperate act. The shaman got onto his hands and knees, digging his clawed fingers into the sand. He did not dare look towards those that marched in his direction, he tore through the sand, spreading the residual in piles around him. As he began to lose hope, his now-bloodied fingers went through the sand, nothing seeming to be on the other side. When the shaman placed his hand deeper into this air pocket, something pulled him through.  He fell down about  30 feet into a deep pool of water.

 

Emerging from the water, the hobgoblin examined his surroundings, finding himself to be at the entrance of a seemingly empty palace. The walls, floors, and pillars of the palace were all made of red sandstone. Gold designs stretched across the structures, forming unrecognizable patterns. Across the room sat a throne made of pure gold, adorned with colorful gems. The hobgoblin pressed forward towards the throne, his steps echoing in the chamber. As he neared, a hoarse voice rang out, reverberating around the room.

 

“Lat narkramp matum. BROSHN-AN MI-BOT”

 

Suddenly, an uruk-sized figure appeared on the throne. Its face partially covered by a gold mask, antlers spread from the top of his head. It was adorned with gold armor and purple, a sword laid across its lap. A smirk crept upon the face of the individual as its gaze focused on the shaman.

 

 

 

“Bumba…” it hissed “Mi wyll blah latz blah fer latz have passed mi tezt. Come forward zo wi may dizcuzz zome thyngz”

 

Bumba’Akaal did as he commanded, striding closer to the spirit. His body trembled slightly as his anxiety and excitement clashed. The hobgoblin remained silent, his clawed fingers wiggling at his sides. The figure spoke once more.

 

“Mi name iz Fraurkû, ah lezzur ilzgul under Xaakt. Mi iz da ilzgul ov Unrest. Wut iz latz reazon for latz visit?”  it inquired.

 

“Mi wizhes to make ah pact with latz” Bumba stated, dipping his head slightly.

 

Fraurkû’s smirk grew wider, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. “Ah pact ye blah?” he snickers, the sound vibrating across the palace. “Why doz ah shaman lyke latz wish to make ah pact with ah Ilzgul ov Unrezt?” 

 

“Mi haz peep’d da importance ov conflict, da importance ov rebellion, da importance ov Unrezt” he grunted, licking his dried lips “It iz Unrezt dat drivez progress, without Unrezt, da Urukim will nevur grow strongur”

 

The lesser Ilzgul closed his eyes for a few moments, pondering Bumba’s request. Finally, he nodded his head “Vereh well den” he croaked “Latz can be mi champion uv Unrezt but latz muzt do azh thyng fer mi” He holds up his sword, pointing it in Bumba’s direction “Forge ah weepun honorabel enouv to carreh in mi name. Azhz latz do diz, latz will have latz pact!” 

 

 

Fraurkû then swung his sword, a wave of purple fog swept out from the weapon to encompass the shaman. As Bumba breathed the substance in, he drifted out of consciousness. When he finally woke, he was back in the ruins of the forest, the fire pit extinguished.