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A thud, the sound of mud squelching beneath her knees upon her descent - breath tearing at her lungs. The thill’s gaze lifted upwards towards the canopy of tree, towards the figure. A terror instilled within her then, fabric scraping against stone as she stumbled back. A dreadful form craned above her, red locks like smoldering embers draping about its shoulders. Little else could be seen of who stood there. Watching, a raspy voice would escape this creature, the barest of whispers, yet audible over the storm. “Do you remember me, mali?” It questions, a sickening hateful tone to that voice, form lurching forward as lightning struck nearby, and in that split second, their figure, once obscured, was revealed, as a rotting - putrid frail beast. Hollow crevices in place of eyes not even the cartilage remained of the woman’s nose. Bony digits reached forth, wrapping about her chin and digging into the flesh of her cheeks, perhaps to assure that her gaze would not drift. “Look upon me, Aiyeis; tell me who I am.” Spoke that creature in its vile tone. Breath so foul that the ‘thill could taste it on her tongue, mouth watering as bile rose, but through the tears and disgust she croaked, “Meredith, my sister,” And only moments after her chin was released. That hunched body of the once lively woman straightened. A smirk spread across the remnants of their decaying face, as though content on the anguish caused. Insects scuttling free of her mouth as her dry and cracking lips parted, at first only her yellowed teeth would be revealed – as her wretched voice spilled forth, “You are nothing, a thief who survived in place of her lliran,” And with that, the ‘thill sat up. The sound of rain was absent, it had only been a dream. Her back slick with sweat, short breaths leaving her in quick pants. All was quiet for that brief moment after she had awoken, then the ghastly whispers flooded in. Filling her ears with unintelligible noises. And alone she would be, if not for the figure that sat at the foot of her bed. A void in place of its face. Stringy crimson hair draped down its head. A discomforting sight to be sure. Reminding her of the voice that haunted her nights, that twisted her waking day, a hollow forsaken tone all that remained of the lari’onn she knew.
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[!] A copied journal entry is scribed on a series of tattered pages, spread about the realm inside various trash cans and on the ground in back alleyways. [!] A depiction of two titans, one the Breaker of Clouds, and the other the Worm, clashing in a fierce battle. ============================================== Within the depths of the marshes, a man, a woman, and her dog meet with an ivory figure; discussing life, ambition, and being. The figure of ivory, in its wisdom, takes the two descendants on a journey to a hidden plane, one of darkness, to bestow upon them a vision of the future. Within the vision, entrails of many-eyed creatures decorated the ground, as the man and the woman float in the empty space above. They were shown a dim light, and within it, clashed the Cloudbreaker and the Worm. The Worm, in its majesty, emerges victorious after a brief battle, swatting down the Cloudbreaker with ease. The worm shrinks back into the ground, and out of the hole left in its wake emerges a boy, no older than twelve, wearing a crown of ebony black and wielding a blade of mysterious origin. His presence is short, ominous; erased by an eruption of light. ============================================== But what of it? There is nothing of it. The ivory one’s illusion of battle may have really happened, si, but it is irrelevant to why I had pursued the second meeting in the first place. When I had first stumbled across the bog, the ivory one dangled the promise of greater understanding above my head, as if I were cattle being herded into a pen. Now when I had returned, it roped me into a vision, one that I did not ask nor care to see, and it had only served to dissuade me from pursuing this gift of knowledge further. But, every great scientist has been met with a roadblock at least once in their careers, amigos. I would be a fool to let something like this stop me. There is no narrative for me to push in a public missive. I am not one to blindly preach vague and esoteric prophecies that I do not understand the purpose of myself. Signed, Josef ==============================================
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The Events Depicted are not common knowledge. 𝓐 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓣𝓪𝓼𝓴 The priest had been wandering those hazed woods, for many a night had he not seen rest, a part of his blessing from the Angel. To roam the woods and lands, free as a wolf who shepherded the fearful sheep, he had been haunting those roads. Perhaps waiting for someone, or something, such was a mystery upon his muddled mind. However it was upon that travel, did he begin to hear it, the toll of bells. A constant hum and ring that refused to lessen, bearing directions from the west, east, south, and north. It called as one would whistle for a dog, goading him into the woods, to search further and deeper. To take call of his destiny perhaps, for as he ventured further into the woods. So did those trees began to warp and shift, their brown bark blackening, their green leaves quickly falling. Replacing into long arms of a warped and charred wood. Black ash, soon began to fill his lungs, as his feet sunk further into the mud and muck. His gaze began to linger further into the landscape, wrought on by the blessing, the truth! For in the distance, did he see it, the long dark towers that rose from the ground like obsidian obelisks. How grand they where, how ruinous, a true depiction of the end wrought from truth of his prayer. In the distance, enwreathed in flames, was there a brilliant mote of light. A tree, akin to the Ashwoods of the north, enwreathed in brilliant hues of orange and red. Like a Moth to flame, did the man begin to make his way forward. Fear clung to his soul, yet more importantly, did his zealousness trump that emotion. For he was in the domain of the dark, the shadow. He was granted a sight of the days to come, and so with every fiber of his being, would he force himself to draw nearer. "All converges into one. One, converges into all. Time fades, time intertwines. The flesh of wood, the flesh of man, the flesh of lion. To grant my vessel" "Devoted. Defying of the Deific. Break the Chains. Grant my Vessel" The words came from the ground, the earth, the tree. Like a choir, it rang through his psyche like an ever persistent hymn. Feelings long since held, returning, as he remembered his first encounter with the choir. So, did he stare at the tree, frantic words exited from his scarred maw. "Who are you?" The thing of yore almost seemed to twist and bend towards the man, the priest, the Blackfinger! In its many bodied tone, did it answer that question, with a truth. A testament to its being and holiness. "I am the first, I am the last. The eternal flame is snuffed when I have burnt to ash." The mans eyes, those of a gray hue currently, bore witness to what he had only though to see in visions. "The Eldar Flame?" Its silence spoke volumes, before that choir grew in volume. Spreading its faith, its truth and goal, to the man in front of it. "To show the dreams of the eternal mass, one shall grant my vessel. To rebirth beyond the memories of the world. To birth upon the flesh of the descendants, to grant clarity, to grant timelessness. To grant, all." "Devote to the breaking of chains, and all shall be revealed." Then did it give one last sermon, one last gospel for the prophet of the tower to bask in. Though as it did, a gnarled branch would extend forth, in doing so would it drop. Creating his crook, his guide in a sense, for the flock. "The Husk of the Aspects. To meld at my place of rebirth. To then fuse a lion into the flesh of my tree, shall awaken my roots to flow through wherever I stand. To break through the constraints of mortality. to grant you guidance." Slowly did he lower himself down, amongst the muck and mud, did he find that branch of gnarled make and eldritch runes. His fingers, gracing over its design, before the leather clad digits poked at the pointed stake. His head merely nodding as he saw such things, before his gaze looked to the Eldar Flame, to the one that had guided him. "Then so shall it be done" Upon such utterances, did the trees and choir grow, almost in glee. His head thrumming and mind breaking, as he felt his head hit the tough road. He was there, perhaps minutes, hours, days even. Yet upon him standing, did he find within his grasp, that occult branch. His staff, his crook, his guide for the lost sheep. So, did he begin to walk, and walk, and walk! Until his feet grew blisters, and his skin grew pale and pallid. Until the dyes of his hair fell through, and the shock of silver was made clear again. Through turmoil and travel, did he bear semblance once more to his true visage. The one that was dead, yet not, the one that had learned all he needed. The one that had failed his Kingdom and Lordship. Yet despite it all, did he travel, far and fast, until he found the blackened keep. His hands going to those iron gates, no longer as merely a man, but instead as the Ashen Prophet
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A Prince’s Pondering [!] Artist depiction of Prince Kosher Daesmon writing down his ideas (Circa 81 S.A) =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Prince had been locked away for days in his tower overlooking the shining city of Caras y Tennellar. Hunched over, slaving away over writing decrees and plans to revive his civilization, only to crumple up and throw them to the side like the others. "Garbage." He spat, the piles of parchment laying discarded in the dusty corner. He had faced a dilemma, a challenge he had never had to face before in his over sixty years on the continent. He faced having to govern. The ambition to gain power had stemmed from his youth. After all, being the bastard of an ambitious lizard from the Hollow came with its perks and downsides. After spending a lifetime of being a bandit nobleman, a darkspawn turned knight of light, snaking his way through the politics of Almaris like a mole through tunnels. He put down the quill for a moment, the scratching of the quill on parchment subsiding as silence filled the room. He would quietly get up from his desk, rubbing his eyes as he looked about. The morning sun would blind him, his crimson locks, usually neat, would be rough and stuck together. His clothes would be wrinkled and filthy, though he hadn't left the confines of the study for days prior. He would sigh in relief as he stretched his legs, a yawn escaping the young 'ame as he blinked and adjusted to the brightness of dawn. “Perhaps I should take a walk.” As the Prince walked down from his study, he would glance at the throne that stood high above the seats of the citadel, the carpet below stained red from the blood of the men and women who had been executed there for years. Memories of family, friendship, and betrayal soaked there as a reminder of the hardships of stability. He would sit on the throne, looking at the murals on the walls as memories passed through his mind. For twenty years he had worked to sit on that throne, now that he had it there was no one left to rule. Next thing he knew, he was walking through the city, boots echoing with every step on the cobble as the streets lay bare, begging for any sort of life to come back. Streets once occupied by children, bakers, brave soldiers, artisans, smiths, even Templars of light, now succumbing to the graying of time. Reaching the end of the road to the stairs, he would stop in front of a manor on the cliff. His manor. Their manor. A single tear would roll down his face, thinking of how his wife and eldest daughter left suddenly without a single word to him. The Bastard, The Bandit, The Traitor, The Snake, The Soldier, The Prince. Kosher would sigh, realizing the futility of his situation. Anyone smarter, even him if he was, would've quit trying to help the dying city. He considered letting it rot, succumb to the tests of time. Yet, he shook his head like he had before, disgusted he even conceived the notion of doing so. None of that mattered to him, for the halls of his domain may lay empty and unoccupied for now, but the shining sea glimmering in the sun’s light was enough for the Prince as he climbed onto the sea wall. He stayed there for a long time, pondering the purpose of his existence and why he had chosen to come here with the goal to become Prince. He would look out to the sea, memories of his father nearly killing him in those very walls flooding to him as the sea called to his ears, the salty air reviving him. He had lost many friends in the very city he now led, blood staining the images of the beautiful realm within his mind. Then, it hit him… The beam of light struck him in the eyes, the Prince falling back and hitting his head on the pavement as he fell into the dream. Flashing lights, blood spurting, bodies littering the floor, the city he called home burning once more. He would be a helpless bystander as he saw this vision.. Not a vision, he thought. A Nightmare. Then, he saw himself explode into flames as he led a final charge, shuddering as he saw his soldiers retreat after getting the last survivors out. Then it rewinded. He would see himself burst into flames once more, but this time a beam of light striking the warrior prince as Kosher watched on, awestruck by the sight. He saw a being of pure light emerge, taller than the Prince, stronger, better than him. He watched as the warrior struck down the beings of dark, a merciless rampage ensuing as rage boiled in the being, only stopping after he had severed the life from every last one of the attackers that had harmed his people, his crown, his family. The being of pure light would turn to the young prince, the blinding light subsiding as for the first time the bystander could see who exactly emerged in his place. Kosher would gasp, not able to catch his breath as he saw Himself. As the Sea Prince would open his eyes, he’d wince in pain as he realized what happened. For a while, he would lay there looking at the stars that had risen in his deep slumber that had wasted an entire day’s opportunity. Long after the full moon had risen and lit up the whole city, he finally found the time to begin getting off the hard cobblestone street. He would sit up, reaching his hand up and touching the area of pain on his head. A searing pain would shoot through him as a sudden headache came about, forcing the Prince to halt his recovery in order to process the amount of pain he had been put through from a simple fall. Pulling his hand back, it would be slick with blood seeping through the scabs that had formed between his hairs. None of that mattered to him though, as one name echoed through his head. A name that sounded as though it were sent by the Aenguls to guide him. A word that gave him a reinvigorated hope for the future, and a final goal to attain in order to save not only his people, but maybe even the continent. The one word that rang out like a bell to him as he had seen the being of light, Raphael.
