DAENGIE

Druids Up

Father Bishop Aerin Marsyr would do a double take, as he read over the missive over and over, blinking rapidly as he leaned back in his seat, wondering just how the hell he got here.

The Scouring of Pestilence’s Gardens Descent into Sloopidoop [!] This post follows the redlines of Arcane Displacement; none of its contents are common knowledge. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhPqEFSaaS4 Litany of Scouring “Suffer not the heretic, the unclean, the anathema to live. For in allowing their existence, we are as guilty as they are. We must scour them in the All-Father’s fire, and throw their ashes to the wind, so that they may never be remembered. Through this, we will have finally given the unclean what they deserve. Nonexistence.” Sickness and rot, as far as the eye could see. This place was naught more than that. Even the air, it seemed, was weighed down with a feverish languor. As Rúne and High Keeper first set foot upon the flesh-like substance that passed for earth in this realm, it was all they could see. The land itself – if one could even, in truth call it land – was pox-ridden, tumorous, and above all, filthy. And those inhabitants that slunk across the nightmarish plane were little different, each and all bloated, mottled and warped with disease, and swarmed with flies and maggots. The only response, the only feeling that came to Rúne in that moment was disgust. His gaze panned over the sickening vista before him. Had he lips to frown, he certainly would have, though his war-mask was well enough shaped in a rictus frown anyway, and he very nearly raised his voice to comment on the matter, yet there was not time to do so. Within moments, one of the realm’s denizens had taken notice of the new arrivals and made course for them, grasping at them with warty clawed hands covered in scabs and sloughing skin. Its tortured existence then was brought to a swift end – it took little more than the swipe of a poleaxe to fell the blighted thing. With its death rattle, however, the creature alerted others of its sort some distance off – others, which, at a glance appeared less fragile than this first had been. So it was, that a purpose was drawn sharply into focus; there was a mission to be accomplished in this place. A calling to fulfill the Father’s Mission. Even here, in a far flung plane, ruin had taken root and therefore necessitated response. Though respite and a moment to prepare would have been preferable, these creatures – plaguelings, Rúne thought to title them – seemed unlikely to grant such a luxury. In but a few moments’ time, battle was upon the purifying pair and they answered in kind. Bile, blood, puss, and necrotic flesh came to litter the ground. As one plagueling fell, another came in its place, some of greater constitution and size than others. Fortunately, the enemy were few enough in number that the travelers were not overwhelmed, but the effort was nonetheless taxing. Weapons began to chip, armor dented, but they persisted on. No goal in mind save for setting the cursed realm that had arrived upon with the father’s flame, the pair simply fought forward, slaying their poxed assailants as they went. Flame was difficult to maintain in such an environment, damp and gory as it was, yet nonetheless the dead were set to pyres where possible. In truth, the fires were the only sense of the passage of time they found in that stagnant, rotting realm. Ahead, one saw an endless trail of illness and death; behind, a series of small, weak columns of smoke that loomed over hastily constructed shrines and cairns wrought of what loose stone could be scavenged. Written in ash and blood, it stood as a testament to the success of their crusade, small though it may have been. How long would this damage last after they had departed? Rúne’s mind wandered on that thought as they went along. Was this accomplishing anything? Would it matter? In a place so beyond the laws of the natural world, so defined by rot and degradation, would it not simply return to its original state? He struggled to find a satisfactory answer to that, until at last he concluded upon the one point that mattered: the accomplishment was in the deed itself. So it was that the Elder Sorvian was resolved to continue his battles. For what he measured to be days, perhaps weeks, the slaying continued, until at last it seemed that to continue would be more deadly than to withdraw. Repairs and convalescence were needed, and so the decision was made to return to the true world. But at the very least, a mark had been made on this place, a burning eye three miles wide, set ablaze in the Father’s name.

Father Aerin Marsyr would find the grip on his sword's handle tighten subconsciously as he read the missive from within the temple of caius, speaking with an exasperated sigh. "Delusional fools, still dreaming of empire...Hopefully none of this comes to pass." the priest would state, before thinking back on promises made, and oaths given by the Númenedain to come to the aid of the WEE FOLK, should any aim to strike at them.

Father Aerin Marsyr opens up the golden bull posted beside the morning papers, smiling as he read over it within the sanctum of The Grand Temple of Caius, watching as the golden cross which had long languished in its halls, was finally carried out of the church to be put atop it by arthalionath serfs, and gray company engineers.

Collective mental Illness Spice of the same flavor.

Aerin would squint at the newly released missive, scratching his head. "So...Time ta make corgi armor I suppose..." Knowing full well his brother and nieces would come running to outfit their Cardigan Numenedain Corgi.

As the denizens of the north began their own conflicts, red eyes would watch the spilling of blood into the cold dying earth from afar. Their time would come with the dying of the light.

Ser Aemon Cook Would look forward to testing applicants, both in weaponry and kitchen appliances.

Ser Aemon Cook Would blink, somehow not having heard of this beforehand, though he'd immediately don his chef's hat and run for his kitchen in Clark Kent-like fashion to begin preparing meals for the feast.

Y-You cant just OUT US LIKE THIS.

Ser Uther's Squire, Aemond, Would sharpen his blade in preparation to assist in the procurement of Iced Creme from the great enemy.

Wow! It's great people are starting to fill out the truly important, but less notable or flashy parts of the lore. It's inspiring even.

Placeholder Hope someone else gets first, but itll be fun to compete again :) IGN: DAENGIE