SimplySeo 5274 Share Posted October 20, 2023 [!] THE INFORMATION IN THIS ARCANE DISPLACEMENT RP POST IS NOT PUBLIC, PLEASE DO NOT METAGAME. [MUSIC] Sheer primordial madness seized Jormunharr’s undead senses as he pondered the first pages of Gor Haedus, the First Script- This was no simple magic book, that much swiftly became clear, this was something…otherworldly, and far older than the race of men (or so he suspected), there was something of a primeval presence about it- Or perhaps, out of time entirely as the Descendants knew it. Foreign glyphs shone, and in a flash, he was no longer in Afkomendurgaard- What his kin called Aos and Eos in life.It was an otherworldly voice which echoed throughout the strange realm, its tone carrying an air of cryptic power. When it spoke, it was a thousand voices in one, ever shifting- Young, old, man, woman, madding to make sense of. "Jormunharr Ingmornesson, the Cruel-Iron and the Once-Slain, enters our realm.." Startled and disoriented, Jormunharr raised his gnarled hands and uttered, "Who speaks of me?" The voice continued, "The Undead, a creature of death and decay, demands to know the source of these otherworldly words." Jormunharr's confusion grew as he ventured deeper into this bizarre place. Every action he took, every word he spoke, and every thought that crossed his mind were described by the invisible narrator, like a pawn in another’s story. "What sorcery is this? Why am I ensnared within the verses of this unseen scribe?" Jormunharr pondered aloud. "The Stalker of the Dark, bewildered by the narrative that shapes his existence, questions the very nature of this peculiar realm," the voice intoned. As Jormunharr delved further into the realm what he found was a maddening place. It was a library, though to call it that was to call a hurricane a drop of rain, with shelves taller than his eyes, wrought with black magic, could see, and sprawling hallways that crawled on infinitely, his every movement was depicted in vivid detail, and his thoughts and emotions laid bare. It was as if he had become a character in a saga beyond his control, where the events were brought to life by the spoken word. Every step- the creek of his boots against ancient oaken floors was a whisper, and every stumble was a shout. His own thoughts were barely his own, as the unceasing voice narrated- And, were he not already mad from death, he imagined it would’ve ebbed at his sanity. Time passed, maybe an hour, maybe a month, maybe a year- But finally, his wandering through that labyrinthine maze of books and ancient tomes was slowed, and his attention drifted to the book in his hand. “The fell warrior pondered the dictate of his misfortune- And wondered if it held the secrets of his freedom? It was that which brought him here, after all, was it not the thing which could return him?” That seemed logical enough, thought Jormunharr, though before he could open the book, the voice spoke again… “And yet- Before his escape could be made- A challenger arose before Ingmornesson, a creature of the otherworlds which he had invaded with his presence…” He saw it as the narrator spoke, a writhing mass of tendrils and mouth, creeping between shelves, inching towards him in the periphery of his vision. It was no manner of creature he recognized, but Undeath and service in the Legions of an Arch-Lich had a way of desensitizing one to eldritch monstrosities… “Jormunharr knew then that there would be no escape until this foe was slain…” The Darkstalker coiled his hand around the haft of his axe, and set the book down upon one of the many vast shelves flanking him- It would not be damaged in their battle, he reasoned, and he would return home… “And so, they fought…” “They fought between the shelves, in lightless hallways and vast scriptoriums- Axe against chittering maw, mortal iron against slimy, slithering appendages of flesh- Their battle drew on, for the beast was relentless, and Jormunharr did not tire, all the while, the voice talked, and talked, and talked- Nearly spelling doom for the Darkstalker on more than one occasion simply by distracting him. It narrated every swing, every bite, every parry and dodge. But, with a lucky strike, Jormunharr at last brought his axe down on the head of that otherworldly creature- Splitting its skull in twain.” With a huff, Jormunharr tore his axe free from the creature’s skull, and after taking a moment to recollect his thoughts, he trod his way down the corridor of chaos he and the monster had carved in their struggle. After a moment or two of sifting about shattered shelves and scattered tomes- He found the one that was his after enough time had elapsed to grate on his already frayed (theoretical) nerves. Meticulously- The ritual from the book was repeated as best he could… And with an utterance of an arcane phrase whose tongue he didn’t truly know- The world began to shift, and warp around him unnaturally… Tightly, he clutched the book… And as Jormunharr departed from Fabul- The narrator spoke for the final time. “...And thus, did the Saga of the World-Treader begin.” Well, that was painfully cliche. 12 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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