| The Land of Avalon is a freeform medieval/fantasy roleplaying site loosely based on Arthurian lore. Avalon is home to many friendly members, administrators, and position holders, most of whom are always willing to RP, no matter how new a person might be to the site. With a large shop system full of various spells, items, and equipment no two characters are the same. With character races ranging from elves and humans to dragons, chimeras, and demons Avalon welcomes a wide range of races and RP skill levels. From the Northern Lands holding word limits suited for beginners to the West for the more advanced, no one is too inexperienced to join in on the fun. With a variety of deities and elemental guardians, kings and nobility to pledge to (or oppose) there is no shortage of roleplaying opportunity. Avalon is full of great members and staff with a great sense of humor, friendly welcomes, and a love for roleplaying. Avalon invites you to experience the magic, today! |
| Summoned.; [+1,000 words] | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Sep 28 2008, 03:22 AM (310 Views) | |
| Sir | Sep 28 2008, 03:22 AM Post #1 |
The Dead One
|
Her arm quivered by her side but she stilled it quickly. Nobody had seen the quiver. She willed her arm to stay still and refused to let her distress take on another physical form. Her face was sufficiently sombre, her red-rimmed eyes gleamed (with tears?) and her attire was of the deepest, darkest black the village seamstress had been able to find. Her simply-cut brown hair was a colour between brown and orange: a colour that looked chocolate brown in moonlight and fiery orange in sunlight. A single curl had escaped from its severe hairnet-prison and lay beside her cheek, softly caressing the pale, freckled skin as she nodded her head. “My gratitude for your concern,” she whispered solemnly to the old man before her who nodded his head gravely, put on his black hat and walked away, allowing the person behind him to step forward. “I offer my condolences, Widow,” said the pregnant woman who had taken the old man’s place; the words were what custom required. She clumsily leaned forward to kiss the porcelain cheeks of the cadaver laid on the table between the two women. “My gratitude for your concern,” the widow whispered in return. “Oh, my dear, my poor dear. You are so young, and childless – oh, my dear,” the pregnant woman suddenly squeaked and tears burst from her eyes though she tried hard to squeeze them back in. She clutched at her large stomach, then she hesitantly reached over the body and awkwardly patted the arm of the woman. The widow remained unchanged, her dark eyes staring blankly ahead of her as the pregnant woman blubbered and murmured hysterically. She left at long last, weeping loudly, and the next person stepped forward to offer their condolences to the woman. Finally the last person approached. The woman raised her eyes slightly out of curiosity - who was this? All of the townspeople had already been, all had come to offer their condolences and give the dead his final embrace. So who was left to come offer condolences? A dark figure approached, and for a moment the woman’s heart beat wildly until she noted the stranger’s unsteady and comical manner of walking. She let a smirk of amusement gently twist the corners of her lips. “So, he’s dead, is he?” the stranger croaked. His – the woman wasn’t quite sure if the voice belonged to a man or a woman, but something about its coarse manner seemed very masculine to her and she labelled the voice as a he – voice was of the strangest quality, like the crunching of stones beneath one’s feet. It was such an unexpected voice that for a moment the woman did not react to the deviation from custom. He was a stranger after all and was uncouth and did not know proper custom. “Yes, he is dead.” “You do not mind, do you, if I do not kiss him? For my back pains me greatly and excessive bending may eventually result in a miserable accident that I keenly wish to avoid. And of course, I have, in my days, kissed the miserable dead lips of many a person, and it is not the most pleasurable thing on earth. Though, I must admit that I do not remember anymore what the most pleasurable thing on earth is.” The burst of words fell noisily around the woman. Her dark eyes filled with suspicion and she finally moved her stiff arms and crossed them beneath her pretty little breasts. She gazed at the bent, cloaked figure but could not perceive anything through the dark material that clung to its body and the gloomy shadow that darkened its face. “What is it that you want then, sir?” “Oh...I just came to offer you my . . . condolences.” He grinned, lifted his arm, gave a gay wave and departed, leaving the woman with her arms crossed and her face painted with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. A moment passed in this manner until she finally cleared her mind. She smoothed out the crinkles in the dead man’s shirt and stared down at him. The usual deathly-peaceful expression of the dead overshadowed his countenance, leaving it looking very much like the face of a freshly-carved marble statue. His russet brown curls had been meticulously arranged around his face in near-perfect symmetry and even the little hairs of his eyebrows had been brushed so they all pointed in the same direction. The woman ran one of her long, thin fingers along his dry lips, feeling the gentle roughness beneath her skin. She stopped her finger on his smooth cheek, staring at him with large, sad eyes, blinking once, twice. The gleam in her eyes intensified, a barely perceptible tremble ran up her arm. She was going to... She jerked her finger against his cheek, pushing the long, sharp nail into his soft, dead flesh. She felt his teeth and gums and pushed harder, her nail digging into the cool, dead tissue. She gripped his jaw with the rest of her fingers, nails pressing against bone and tooth and muscle. She gripped his face like a cat with its paws sunk deep into its prey. - - - - - - The darkness of the night shrouded her and cloaked her doings. It was a cold autumn night that exhaled the first breaths of winter; frost crept along the edges of the rotten, brown leaves and her exhalations came out as tendrils of smoke that curled around her. She took in a deep, shaky breath and carried on pushing the wheelbarrow through the forest. Unbeknownst to her the darkness of the night was shared by another creature, a strange shadow that followed less-than-silently behind her; however, fortunately for the stranger, the shuffling and rasping sounds were covered by the squeak of the wheelbarrow and its crunching noises as it bashed its way through the undergrowth. It took the woman a very long time to reach her destination, and indeed, the stranger felt that she was purposefully travelling in circles to shake off followers. But the woman did not know she was being followed and the stranger did not lose her. Finally she reached a place in the forest that seemed no more special than any other patch, but it seemed to please her, for she stopped and began to push the body from the wheelbarrow. As she dumped it with a soft crash to the ground the stranger sat on a rotten stump, its crunch unheard over the noises made by the woman. She lit a candle she had brought with her, took out a piece of crumpled parchment and sat down next to the body. She ran her hands methodically over it, her lips moving until after a while a soft murmur escaped them as she grew more confident. The stranger had seen many such happenings before and was not intrigued by this woman’s performance. Indeed, he found it rather mediocre with more than a few mistakes, and unfortunately for him her mediocre mistakes did not offer any hilarity to the situation, and he was left with nothing interesting to watch. He sat unmoving on the stump, listening with only half of one ear to the woman’s work. The woman was a poor woman in a poor town in Avalon. The stranger did not know why he had come to this poor town to watch this poor woman. Or well, he did know why, but such reasons were rarely considered sane, though he was way past the point of looking after his sanity. He had felt some inner voice telling him to go here, or perhaps it had been some silent voice of this place calling him to it. But here he was. It did not really matter if he came here or not, or if something important happened here or not. He had time and he had memory and he had freedom. The woman had been even more of a disappointment than the village. Such a boring person with no original ideas – she had killed her husband with poison and was now attempting to summon some benign demon or spirit to attack her village. Yawn; the stranger had seen such before and had seen many who had performed in a much more vigorous manner. He was almost tempted to get up and give her an example of how a summoning should be performed, but not yet. Though it would be fun, it wouldn’t be as fun as what he had in mind. As the woman’s summoning neared its end, the stranger grew wearier. Her monotonous voice had reached a very unpleasant squeak that was meant to be authoritative, yet somehow managed to sound much like the squeak of a field mouse being stepped on. But it was during the last syllables, the last words of her summoning that something happened – something that the stranger had not expected. The earth rocked beneath them and a darkness even darker than the night around them flashed before the woman. Then there was silence. “Impressive. I definitely wasn’t expecting such an ending. Almost worth the wait,” the stranger said, appearing silently behind the woman. She shrieked, whirled around, stared at him for a moment and then grunted. “You! What are you doing here? I didn’t summon you,” she snarled. “I know. But I wished to come and gloat and tell you that you were not able to summon anything. Oh dear, I am such a party-pooper. Forgive me.” “You miserable cur! You -” But whatever other insults she was planning to hurl at him were drowned out by a thunderous roaring. “I HAVE HEARD THY SUMMONS AND AM GRATEFUL FOR THE INVITATION TO DO AS I WISH. THOU WHO HEAREST THE POUNDING OF MY VOICE WITHIN THY MINUSCULE BRAINS AND ART NOT TOO WRETCHED AND CRAVEN TO FEIGN DEAFNESS ART SUMMONED WHENCESOEVER TO ATTEND ME IN THIS HEAVEN-FORSAKEN AND MISERABLE SPOT OF LAND. MAYHAP THOU SHALT LISTEN THIS TIME AND WE SHALL BE ABLE TO COMPLETE GRAND DEEDS.” The voice and the echoes of such a voice were heard in the confines of the minds of the dead. However, it was not all the dead that were subjected to such an excruciating summoning. The puny and weak dead ones were exempt, so it was only those who were powerful enough and who chose to listen who heard it. And in a few special cases it was not just the dead that chose to hear it, but a few of those that had long dealt with the arts of necromancy or were well-versed in the ways of the dead could hear the voice too. But though, all in all, quite a few heard, most chose to ignore such painful summons, for they were indeed wretched and craven creatures and preferred to feign deafness. For a long time Sir’s spirit was rattled by the deep dead voice. Finally the echoes subsided so that he was able to speak and he did so with a deep gasp, a pained gasp. “What in the shadowy heavens and subterranean realms have you summoned, woman?” he shrieked, arms flapping uselessly about him. “Though I have no fear of death or pain, even I, the notorious Sir would not dare to even think of such a being.” But what he said turned out to be like writing to a blind person, for the woman lay sprawled next to her dead spouse, equally dead-looking. “Oh bugger.” There would be those that would answer the call, oh yes. The most powerful, most dangerous and hungriest ones would come, not like hounds called by a master, but like deadly mercenaries called by the chink of gold. And of course, things would then only get worse, because after they arrived, it would arrive. It, the one who had been summoned and in turn had summoned them all. |
|
Spoiler: click to toggle
| |
 |
 
|
| Rurouni | Jan 9 2009, 06:19 AM Post #2 |
Katsujin-ken satsujin-to...
|
How very ironic that the call of the dead should be answered by one who had formerly worn the mantle of God of Life. A Deity Shadyn was not, at least not any longer. The powers of a celestial had been violently torn from his body by sheer force of will, but yet they lingered behind like the edge of a page ripped carelessly from a tome. Just as his heart yet throbbed with its life-giving force, and seraphic ichor continued to flow through his veins, so too did his body resonate with the powers of life. But whereas before they were pure and whole, now they were but shades of their former glory. They came to Shadyn in erratic bursts. One moment they might rise in all the strength they used to hold and in the next abandon their owner entirely, as if mocking the fallen Celestial. He was a twisted, vague shadow of what he had once been, and not even he had a full explanation for his current state. He was indeed in the mortal plane, but he was somehow above those who surrounded him. It was in moments such as these, moments which revealed his supernatural power, that this became particularly evident. The Western Lands were full of queer places and strange, mostly uncharted lands. The bulk of the adventuring crowd tended to get their fix in the Northern Lands, which were already well-explored and withheld few secrets. Very few had the audacity to venture west, into lands that were not quite so well known and were full of dark and mysterious enigmas. It was the fear of the unknown that gripped them, the fear of things they did not understand. Among the things that went bump in the night, Shadyn certainly fit right in. Such was the reason why he happened to be plodding through that particular forest on a night that seemed as lonely and desolate as any that had come before. Iracaudia was settled on his shoulder, talons digging in to the white leather surcoat he wore. Over the years of traveling with the Nephillim, she had grown accustomed to balancing on his shoulder when she elected to get a ride rather than fly herself. At night, it was difficult to find the thermals that she so enjoyed soaring on, and so at the moment she was resting. Her head bobbed up and down with Shadyn’s meandering gait, her aquiline eyes piercing into her surroundings. Shadyn himself was plodding along with his hood pulled back, his golden eyes peeking out from behind wild, auburn bangs. Besides the cloak, he was dressed in his typical traveler’s attire. On his torso was a long-sleeved, light gray shirt with a sleeveless dark brown leather wrapping. On his legs were black trousers, leather calf braces, and leather traveler's boots. Soltia and Lunaras were sheathed on his back as they nearly always were, with Soltia in the traditional position with the hilt poking up over the right shoulder, and Lunaras lashed across the back of his hips with the hilt jutting out from his left flank. The night was moonless and had come with a chill. Though Shadyn possessed no sense of touch, and thus could not feel the cold, he could see the way his breath emanated as misty tendrils that licked his visage before dissipating into the darkness. The forest was in the grip of the autumn descent, with the first hint of the imminent arrival of winter riding with the biting breeze. Dried leaves crunched under Shadyn’s foot, and far, far away a bard owl let out its distinctive cry before falling as silent as the rest of the forest. It was an ominous place to be sure, but Shadyn had never been one to much mind the unknown. He wasn’t searching for anything but where he should go next. His feet led him according to his whims, and if those took him into a baleful woodland, then the rest of him would follow. The darkness was actually quite peaceful. Even Ira was silent, leaving the Nephillim to wandering, erratic thoughts about nothing in particular. “I HAVE HEARD THY SUMMONS AND AM GRATEFUL FOR THE INVITATION TO DO AS I WISH. THOU WHO HEARST THE POUNDING OF MY VOICE WITHIN THY MINUSCULE BRAINS AND ART NOT TOO WRETCHED AND CRAVEN TO FEIGN DEAFNESS ART SUMMONED WHENCESOEVER TO ATTEND ME IN THIS HEAVEN-FORSAKEN AND MISERABLE SPOT OF LAND. MAYHAP THOU SHALT LISTEN THIS TIME AND WE SHALL BE ABLE TO COMPLETE GRAND DEEDS.” The voice erupted seemingly from nowhere, reverberating back and forth like a terrible, deafening echo inside his skull. Shadyn’s whole body stiffened all at once, his arms and fingers flexing involuntarily. His eyes widened and the jaw muscles in the back of his cheek bulged as his teeth gritted together. Ira screeched and flapped her wings wildly, flinging black and white feathers all about as Shadyn fell to his knees and she fluttered indignantly to the ground in front of him. From the look on her hawkish face, it was clear that she had heard the voice as well. Shadyn gripped his head and massaged his temples with both hands, long hair poking up between his fingers sporadically. As quickly and suddenly as the voice had come, so too did it vanish without a trace, leaving the night silent and undisturbed. Shadyn was still quite on edge, and his head swiveled rapidly as he tried to discern where the voice had come from. It had arisen seemingly from nowhere, but what was even stranger was the fact that it wasn’t his ears that had picked it up. The voice had resonated throughout his very mind, filling his consciousness with a dark and foreboding presence that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. The voice carried with it a terrible stench, a menacing aura of the void that Shadyn recognized. It was the aura of death. That voice…what was it? Who gave it the “invitation to do as it wishes”? And it wants me to come…but where? And why? The last question brought back a memory of the final words of the voice in the back of his head, cheerfully mocking his consciousness with the sarcastic remark “to do great deeds of course!” Be that as it may, what was considered a great deed to a voice such as that one? Ira was looking up at him with her head cocked inquisitively to the side. She could speak to him telepathically, but she didn’t need to say anything at all really. Her expression clearly was asking “Are you alright?” Shadyn answered her with a slight nod and gently stroked her plumage a few times, to which Ira reacted by twisting her head and body to guide him to the ideal spot. Shadyn’s eyes blinked a few times as if to clear his mind, which was finally beginning to settle down after what had just happened. Whatever the voice was, he could tell Ira had heard it too and was just as surprised and confused. They had encountered many strange and eerie things throughout their wanderings together, but this was among the most aberrant. So what were they to do now? Aurion couldn’t answer many of those questions just yet, but there was one that was beginning to come to him. Somehow, through means that he didn’t yet understand, the direction in which he was to travel was becoming clear to him. It didn’t exist as anything more than a strange inclination to head off, deeper into the woods, in a particular direction. It wasn’t overpowering, and besides what force was strong enough to command an angelic being and a former deity besides? It was merely a suggestion. An invitation. But why did I receive it? And…why did Ira as well? It seemed clear through the grisly taste the voice left behind on Shadyn’s tongue that its owner had meant to summon those kindred of the dead that yet walked the earth. Shadyn was very much alive; his body functioned as well now as it ever had. He could even hear his heart pounding in his ears like a background drum. Ira was fully vivacious as well, and at that very moment she was trying to urge Shadyn back up to a standing position by flapping her wings and hovering off the ground for a few seconds at a time. The Angelus forced himself first onto one knee, then back onto his feet, his left hand falling away from his head while the other ran through his hair, clearing the dark bangs from his eyes. Satisfied, Ira flapped her way back onto his shoulder and nudged his head in the direction he felt the voice was leading him too. We might as well find out where that came from, and why we were privy to it. Be careful though, I sense darkness down that way. Shadyn could feel it too, a deep-seated menace that seemed to rise from the forest itself lay in that direction. However, Ira had a point. Since when were they prone to fleeing from the unknown, from things they didn’t understand? No, Shadyn too felt a desire to discern the source of this voice, and to find out why it had burst into his mind of all the consciousnesses it could have touched. His left hand thoughtfully ran over Lunaras’ pommel, which was alive with its usual nighttime glitter. It also bore an unusually powerful shine, perhaps reacting to the powerful force that had just swept through her wielder. Could it be another abnormality caused by his former status as the God of Life? What was death, after all, but the other side of the same coin? But why, then, did Ira hear it as well? Though an osprey by appearance, Ira was indeed far more than that. Perhaps Phoenixes, with their intricate dance with life and death through their recurring cycle of rebirth, were also conscious of such dark presences. They were all just theories at this point. Regardless of the reason, though, Shadyn turned and trotted off in the direction Ira had so clearly indicated. He wasn’t running, but his gait was rapid. It was clear he was in a hurry, but even so his senses were as alert as they were in the thick of battle. His ears strained for any sound other than the quickening crunch of leaves, his eyes for any indication of anything but the trees he passed in his haste. He followed the urge the voice had left him, for whatever it was, he wanted to sweep aside its shroud of enigma and understand how and more importantly why it had done what it had. ((Betcha thought that word minimum would scare people off forever ;). I thought Shadyn might fit your little requirement, as he has his own odd little relationship with life and death. Ira too. I am honored to post with the great Sirykins ^_^.)) |
|
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.   And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. | |
|
|
|
| Sir | Feb 19 2009, 04:06 AM Post #3 |
|
The Dead One
|
<ooc> Sorry for the lateness! <ic> The sound of the air as it passed between his lips and decaying teeth was a loud rattle that seemed to echo in the still and silent forest. The cold air hesitated between being a chilling zephyr and an unmoving veil, stirring a little every so often and then lapsing into motionlessness. It was the perfect setting for such a tale as was about to unfold; in fact, it was almost ironic how ideally it fit the happenings of the night. Like the props of a play, but never had there been such a corporeal theatre piece. The awkward hush that hung between the trees was disturbed by a scrabbling sound. Frantically Sir’s stiff hands patted his body and clutched at the material around his hips and stomach, snatching at his empty belt. Nevertheless, his frenzied groping did not make his sword appear; he had left it snugly in its scabbard, which he had tied to the saddlebag of his enduring equine companion. He let out a hiss of frustration, halting his fumbling and raising his hooded head to look about him. Of course, he had left his equine companion at the edge of the forest, not wanting the woman to hear the cacophonous noises that a horse made while marching through a forest. As Sir was about to whistle loudly to call his steed, the air before him shimmered and twisted, solidifying into a colossal form, almost twice as tall as an average man and much broader than any man that had ever walked through the lands of Avalon. But then again, this thing that appeared before him was no ordinary man; it probably could not even be counted among the ranks of men anymore. The air that he had sucked in did not come out as a clear, piercing whistle but a splutter that made his body shake. “Aaah, Nitherna, you still walk these mortal paths? It is strange to find you here so quick...I seem to remember that usually you try to slither away when a Great Master calls us.” The voice that boomed from the thing’s large mouth (which was almost-human in appearance had it not been for the hundreds of tiny, sharp teeth that filled the whole inside) would have made even Sir’s skin crawl if his skin was capable of doing that. Instead he recoiled away. “Yes, yes…I still wander here. Slither away? Me? I am sure you are mistaken; you know I am a busy dead man,” he replied, regretting very much that his voice sounded like the buzzing of flies next to the growl of the thing. He carried on, attempting to change the subject: “It has been a long time since I have heard that nickname of mine, honoured Ba’alzac.” The thing rumbled with laughter. “Nitherna? And I suppose you have not managed to decipher its meaning yet, old friend.” Sir ground his teeth together but stopped when he felt his mouth fill with dust. Nitherna was a nickname that had been given to him by a handful of demons he had had the misfortune of stumbling upon some centuries ago. So far he had gathered that it was most likely a favourite insult from some form of ancient elvish, probably from the dark elves in the south. However, he had not been able to track down any surviving records or historians who recalled such a language and so its meaning had stayed hidden, though he was certain of the magnitude of the insult; demons had never been fond of petty slurs. “I suppose you are not planning on enlightening me this time either?” Ba’alzac laughed again, the sound rumbling about them like a minor earthquake. “You still smell atrocious, Nitherna.” “Do I? I did not notice,” Sir replied swiftly. He was about to carry on, but Ba’alzac held out a large, armoured arm to silence him. The demon cocked his head, listening to some sound that could not be heard in this plane. Only then did Sir notice the air begin to shimmer again with the same unholy, dark sparkles that had announced the appearance of Ba’alzac. So, more were coming, perhaps more ‘old friends’; it was time to begin to slip away. “This has been a most illuminative conversation, dear Ba’alzac, but I fear I am unable to attend this little party. I’m sure you’ll forgive me,” Sir said and began shuffling backwards, arms propped behind him to prevent him from bumping into anything. “Already leaving?” The demon stopped his attentive listening and turned his golden eyes on Sir. “I’m sure we’ll see each other very...very...soon.” And with that the demon’s lipless mouth curved into a grin that revealed most of its vile teeth. “I assure you, I cannot wait for that meeting,” Sir called over his shoulder as he turned and began to run. There was still a slim chance he could slip away unseen, if no-one decided to appear along his escape route (some seemed to find it difficult to teleport themselves over great distances and often misjudged the place of appearance, appearing several strides or even leagues away from their intended spot). Sir picked up speed, his black cloak fluttering about his legs and his leather boots crashing through the undergrowth. Before he had taken a dozen strides away, he was suddenly rooted to the ground, as unmovable as a great oak. He toppled over, the soles of his feet and boots stuck to the ground. The cracking of his bones was barely audible over the roar of Ba’alzac’s mirth that was now accompanied by the chuckles of others who had finally materialised. “You decided not to leave, Nitherna?” Sir ignored them, picking himself up gingerly and taking a few steps back to free his feet. He had forgotten that he had been too close to the summoning, so close that only the most powerful could sever the chain that now connected the hearer to the summons, and Sir was evidently not strong enough to do so. With his last hopes dashed he prepared himself to spend a most likely excruciating night in the company of various Greater Dead and Lesser Dead as well as their master. ‘Or mistress...?’ Sir thought to himself. The thunderous voice had been androgynous, and Sir had not been able to match it up with any of the great evils that he knew of. ‘But yes, now that I think about it, why not a mistress? It could very well be her...Long has she wanted to cast her spear of revenge on the world of mortal men. Yes, it could be her...’ His thoughts subsided as he turned to examine his surroundings once more. The dead woman and her husband lay unnoticed by the cart; they would still have a role to play this night. Ba’alzac had been joined by half a dozen monstrous figures and a handful of things that did not look so out of the ordinary, but were most certainly quite deadly. There was only one taller than Ba’alzac, but the rest were not far behind, though their builds varied otherwise. He could see old Six-Arm, the wraith whose name was derived from his unnatural amount of arms; it was a nickname many preferred to use as Six-Arm’s true name left a bitter taste in one’s mouth. Behind Six-Arm skulked several of the Greater Dead, ones that had survived almost as long as Sir had but had gained more strength than Sir had ever dreamed of in his zaniest dreams. To join these esteemed gentlemen (and ladies – two of the wights seemed to have a more feminine presence than the others) there would be armies of zombies, skeletons and perhaps even a few wandering vampires that had been in the area. Sir could not suppress the shiver that ran through his dead body, rattling bones and tightening muscles. He began to wonder what exactly was going to happen. It was beginning to seem that the forest was not the only place in danger, perhaps the whole of Avalon or even the whole of this world was threatened! He could not help letting a sly smile creep onto his lips. There would be much to witness and take part in, if nobody came to oppose this. Out of the benign powers of Avalon, the God of Relief had been thrown down from his throne of Godhood and the God of Life had been replaced, as well as old King Leo of Avalon (whose throne was now warmed by a new old man, one that Sir had not yet been able to meet). Two of Avalon’s current deities seemed bent on total destruction: the Goddess of Death and the Goddess of War would be delighted by whatever was in store. But there was still hope for Avalon, definitely the God of Justice would stand firmly against this oppression, and perhaps the new God of Life, and the God of Nature and the Goddess of Magic would stick their meddling hands in somewhere. Undeniably, this was going to be entertaining. It was at this moment that Sir became aware of a presence coming closer, no, two presences. There was no sound of footsteps or leaves rustling, but with the imminent arrival of so many dead creatures he was more alert than usual. Perhaps it was just two of the closest dead things that had finally scrambled over...but perhaps the presences were something else. Mayhap this summoning had attracted the attention of one of the wanderers of Avalon. Sir pressed himself against the closest tree and waited, while the cold air carried on bubbling and the dead carried on exchanging pleasantries. |
|
Spoiler: click to toggle
| |
|
|
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Outlands (West) · Next Topic » |
1:10 PM Mar 17
