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Visions of the An-Gho | BLESSED WIDUKIND


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The Lord of Discord kept his skeletal-hand over a spherical lexicon that was infused by his maleficent energies. A flock of owls clawed at the stone nearby, as these shadows were cast through the harrowed path into the decrepit kingdom. “Let it be warned, the An-Gho.”

 

With his words, a shadow sprawled itself across the floor, painting the moss-infested walls. It lurched onwards, prancing through the night, and then the scorching day. After finding itself upon sand-dunes and coarse dirt, the tower of the dragonkin came into view; Tor-Azdroth.

Slowly, the wraith clambered up the brick monument, before halting unto the room where the An-Gho meditated. Flames before the three-eyed dragonkin warped and twisted with each coughing gout of ash that smouldered its nose.
 

Instantly, the agent of the dreaded Owl forced itself into the mind of the dragonkin, to provide him visions of what would come.

 

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This nightmare would be in the perspective of the An-Gho. 

 

You awaken in the flaming hallways of the monument of Tor-Azdroth. Outside of the eerie silence, nothing perturbs your mind. It all looks the same, as it always has.

 

As you walk off from your chair and tower out towards the balcony of your mighty draconic fortress, you notice a kindled ember lit near the horizon, off into the distance.

Slowly, your eyes are drawn in, before your vision is scoped into the sight. It feels as though whatever is in front of you has forced you closer, even though you are not.

 

You witness the brilliance of a violet flame, swaying without life. It is uncovered by sand and dust, where two figures stand. One seems reminiscent of a typical skeleton, adorning drabs of ebon-black. However, the other is that of an overbearing Owl, that stands at fifteen-foot tall, with a golden-cross over a singular wise eye. 

 

The sand begins to unfurl, revealing the ancient cadaver of the tyrannical Cloudbreaker. As they sing an old euphony of death, it begins to rise and quake the earth. 

 

Before you see the completion of the lich-drake, the Owl cranes its neck backwards in an impossible feat, and stares at you with a wide glare.

 

As the Owl stares at you, the An-Gho would be forced to awaken. 

 

He would notice a shadowy-silhouette of a barn-owl escaping into the distance.
 

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The figure of the An-Gho slowly rose from the circle of ash in which it had dreamt, three eyes burning incandescent by a new, terrifying fuel.

 

Splayed horns fought the air as its head rocked back and forth in rumination. Syllables and cants left its throat as it began to debate with its very self. Whispers crawled from the walls and from the many altars like flies to a corpse. 

 

The An-Gho inscribed with his voice metaphysical contradictions, impossible propositions, that undo thoughts as readily as they undo utterances. Red robes swirled in a gust of wind. The creature rose a hand and its voice went grave; 

 

"Omen of woe ; when sky cracked ; kin now dreaded."

 

It was reminded of a gift, of a new lesson oft reiterated; grief. 

 

The hundred bells of the tower rung once more, chiming and weeping as they answered the songs of the wind as well as the new torment of Tor-Azdroth. 

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