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Schkrit... schkrit... schkrit... The chisel ate against the wall, leaving behind a single irregular gash. It was lost the moment I looked away, tangled in a web of thousands of them. The walls were crisscrossed with countless marks, each a single cut into stone. Like a fingerprint, pressed, over and over, into ink and then onto paper. This was my print impressed upon the world. The squeak of metal came, and another mark was left. The stone gives way over time, if you spend long enough at it, much like dirt. As a child, I remember digging holes in the fields of my parent's estate. Little clumps of soil, crumbling from its walls, just the same as the pebbles ground down by hours of rubbing on stone. The hole stretched backwards, farther than the light of my lantern would carry. The single candle inside sputtered against the darkness, molten wax oozing into a mound at the bottom of its rusted iron container. The light is my angel, protecting me from the blackness that could swallow me up if it were to go out. When I was a humble seminarian, the school would send us occasionally on trips to assist in raising churches for new communities. I became good at it, I think, I was always handy with tools. Fastidiousness, hard-work, these were virtues, and I would be virtuous, I would tell myself. There was nothing different about the latest raising, until I woke up to a commotion. There was a miracle: God has told our bishop that the chapel would not stand until a living man was buried below the foundations. He told me that I was chosen for this monumental task, and that I would go below the earth and become the one to build our future. I remember seeing my brothers for the last time, but their faces have melted into a pale, amorphous mass. I remember the heat of the sun leaving me for the last time, and the last smell of air before there was only stone. Sometimes, I can the see the glint of a man in the stone who I do not recognize. He has long, hanging jowls, a face piled with wrinkles shoveled on by time. His lips are parched and cracked, speckled with stone. A scraggly white beard hangs low from around them. The eyes are sunken, depressed into his skull like there was nothing behind them. Dull-blue pupils gawk out senselessly at the world. Each eye is bordered by a heavy, bushy grey brow. He is bald, but long drags of filthy, tattered hair run down from his temples and occiput to his shoulders, like the hair of horses. His skin is a sickly tan-amber, from a people used to bright sun, but now sucked of its color by time spent in the dark. He is dirty, dusty, desperately in need of a bath. He is hungry, thirsty, and alone. My hands look so old when I see them by the glint of the candle, calloused into wads of skin. I imagine it is like the hands of a mole. The metal of my chisel is a single scratching talon, worn down to bare but a stub. My beard is whiskers. I think that I am like the mole of God, digging his kingdom out of the earth. When I lick my lips, it tastes dry as rock. I lick the wall, and it tastes the same, that is how I know. I couldn't say how long I've been down here. There is no sun or moon, only me. Sleep is irregular, it comes in fits and bursts. Even then, the dreams are so often of this place, I'm not even sure if I am awake, now. It feels like I wake up, and the chisel is already in my hand against the wall. So, I just keep cutting. I have to, I must. Unto eternity. God wills it. Schkrit... schkrit... schkrit...
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TRIGGER WARNING Chapter 1 Cindy’s breathing grew ragged, her feet staggering across the dry earth. A trail of red did her leg leave behind, and hungry noses did follow. In recent months her usual stamina had declined, her muscles weakened, her emotions muddled. But she wouldn’t change it for a thing, albeit she wished the world could be a better place for her love. She placed a hand on her stomach, her resolve steeling twofold as she remembered her purpose, turning a corner. A dead end. Her blood ran cold, how could she have let this happen? She knew every street, every alley, every building of these ruins, how could she have forgotten? She spun back towards the alley entrance, but already could she hear them. She could hear their feet dragging, their ragged breaths more broken than her own. She could smell their stink, rotting flesh and the metallic tang of fresh blood. What was meant to be a simple resource run for gasoline, all gone wrong in a matter of minutes. A sharp pain ran up her leg, causing her to cry out, an unneeded reminder of her mangled foot. She clamped a hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. But it was too late, the shuffling steps stilled, before a single sound rang out, only able to be described as a groaning scream. Another howl rang out, and another, and the shuffling grew louder again, closer. How stupid could she be, first stepping on her own trap, now losing her way? Focus. What street is this? She stilled her mind, brown eyes scanning her surroundings. A door. She prayed beneath her breath as she tried the handle, thanking the stars as it turned. She quickly slammed the door behind her back. Perhaps her luck wasn’t out yet, the sharp smell of acetone filling her lungs. A hospital. But a putrid smell soon followed, one she knew well, and she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. Resisting the urge to hurl, she gazed at the wreckage. Bodies littered the floor, but they were still and unmoving. For now. She limped past the corpses the best she could, even now unable to fully accept the reality of it. Focus. She thought again. Focus. BANG. Cindy’s whole body flinched, whipping around to peer back down the dark hallway. BANG. Louder now, she saw the source. She could have sworn her heart had stopped, gazing at the door she entered from in helpless fear. BANG. And the door flew open, the stench of decomposing bodies only growing stronger as they poured in through the door, a sob of terror wrenched through her lips before she could help it. She turned and did the only thing she could, she ran. She ran through the hall, turned right, then left. A dead end again. The only way out were the stairs. Rule one, when running never go up. The words echoed through her mind, her heart aching at the memory. But there was only one option. Fire, I need fire. Why did I leave without fire? Up the stairs did she go, gasping out in pain each time her foot hit the ground. But no matter, for the footsteps of the dead never slowed down. Her breath hitched as she felt something tug at her cargo pants, was it one of them or a nail poking out the building’s skeleton? No matter, she only climbed faster, the adrenaline kicking in and driving almost all the pain away. Fate’s final gift spurring her towards the door she knew was near, giving her that burst of energy she needed. She threw herself at the door, praying it was unlocked. It gave way, and she fell forward into… Nothingness. There was nothing. It was dark… silent… nothing but black. Yet somehow she was standing. She could feel her heart pounding, the terror melting into anxiety. She spun around again towards the door, and there it was. Floating in the dark empty space, a rectangle of light. She took a gulp, and took a step towards it… And another… Until she could peer down the stairs from which she came… “No…” She whispered, her hands traveling to her mouth. “Please…” She begged, not knowing whom she was pleading to. “PLEASE!” She screamed, falling to her knees as she sobbed at the sight of her limp and bloodied body on the stairs. Tens of them crowded round her, tearing at her flesh with their claws, ignoring the girl as she screamed in pain. From the other side of the door, Cindy couldn’t hear a thing, but the pain and horror in the girl’s face, her face, were easy to see. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t bring herself to stop watching herself die. Blood poured from her wounds, dripping down the stairs where more of those aberrations awaited to lap it up. Her bloodied handprints painting the walls, a forbidden art piece of hell. Till at last her arms fell limp onto the ground, and her empty, lifeless gaze staring up at Cindy through the open door. Author's note:
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"Making You look Pretty" -Edmund Edmund - c.1590 -Edmund "The Hunch"- Born on the 17th of Malin's Welcome, 1571 Origins unknown to most, Edmund has often been seen strolling from city to city, muttering constantly to himself. He appears around 5'4" and 240lbs, his hair sprouting from his scalp in mismatched places, often giving him a wild look. Born with an underbite, he is often seen as a half-orc abomination in the eyes of most, not giving him time to show his true colors. In a life filled with hate and scorn, Edmund often bides his time, slowly learning so to improve himself, ready to bust out of his ugly shell. -Family and Friends- "To know true loneliness, stare into the depth of his heart"- Unknown scribe, c1587 Abandoned at birth due to his looks, Edmund grew up on the streets and in the forests around Johannesburg. Depending on his somewhat unknown luck, Edmund managed to scrounge up enough food day to day to merely survive, his stomach often causing his to cry in pain at night, the empty ache left unfilled. Growing up alone, his childhood was filled with discrimination, be it from his kind or others, often mocked by the other street urchins as unwanted. Unable to change his life, Edmund rarely thought of his origins, his parents in particular, his only remnant a small ornate patch, sewn into the hood upon his head. Kin of none and friends unknown, Edmund has little to lose. Knowing that, his dreams are weighty, often saving for an unknown plan, his thoughts hidden by an ugly grin. -Possessions- "A man of few articles has nothing keeping him back" -Deitrich, c1300s -Knarled Staff- Edmund is usually seen with a staff at his side, not known if used for support of if he knows how to wield it. Made out of a limb from a remnant of the world tree, the staff remains light yet sturdy enough to deal with most problems, both big or small. Made either by him or precursors before him, the staff lays bare to runes across the majority of the staff, giving an eerie feeling to wandering eyes. -Aurum Studded Gloves- Disfigured from birth, born with stubby fingers. Edmund's life has been hard. Unknown to most he is missing a finger and a bit of another. Not wanting to be known as a cripple as well, Edmund long planned on a way to hide it, in this case being the use of gloves. Saving up for quite awhile, Edmund managed to pay for a pare of nice gloves, not being cheap as he knew he would need them for a long while. Made from the tough leather of Hansetian bulls, the material is both durable and flexible under his touch. Not knowing what life would throw at him, Edmund eventually took the time to line most of the area with small bits of aurum, his task expanding over a few months. -Personality- W.I.P Sorry falling asleep at my desk. its 6:40am and im sleepy. Will continue when I awake :D
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Disclaimer: The currently accepted lore for Voidal Horrors says that these creatures reside within the Void, and since then people have mentally assumed this when thinking up ideas for Void Horrors and thought up not only sentiences, but societies and hierarchies in the Void. This, however, is in contradiction with the nature of the Void. It is an endless sea of energy and potential, a sapient being can not exist there because it is anathema to the Void's raw-energy nature. Consequently, this feature of the lore for voidal horrors must be amended! However, this amendment doesn't necessarily have to change IC beliefs regarding voidal horrors' origins. The Origins of Voidal Horrors Long has it been thought by mortal scholars that the creatures known as Voidal Horrors were not simple monsters, but were actually utterly alien beings who have invaded from the Void where the rest of their bizarre societies resided. Though this line of reasoning is understandable, it is unfortunately incorrect. Voidal Horrors are not invaders from over the great arcane sea, but are instead something perhaps more mundane. The Veil protects the mortal world from disintegration by the endless and chaotic energy of the Void, and it has done so ever since the Creator forged the universe. However, it is not perfect, and often the imperfections result in anomalous instances where the energies of the Void manage to seep into the mortal world, without the control of an arcane mage to guide them. Most often, the Void energies take the form of everyday objects and elements, such as saucepans, fireballs and clocks. Sometimes though, enough energy pierces the veil and interacts with lingering mana, forming what could be considered a pseudo-soul. The energy then takes a physical form around this pseudo-soul creating a sentient being, the Voidal Horrors that many a mortal knows and fears. The beings known as "Greater Voidal Horrors", and even "Arch Horrors" are formed in this exact way. They are not special Voidal Horrors, but are only the result of greater quantities of Voidal energies seeping through in one scenario and therefore creating a more powerful and perhaps intelligent creature.
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