.Discipline
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Bronzefall
Prologue
Marrus awoke in a cold sweat, jolting up from his uncomfortable wooden bed and breathing heavily. This was the third night in a row this had happened and he was almost becoming afraid to shut his eyes at all, but darting them around the room he found comfort in his orb which was still faintly aglow.
It isn't gone. He thought to himself. And neither is Bolerus. No. He must be somewhere. If the orb is alight the bronze one must live.
That thought alone was enough to stave off the fear of sleep, the image of the silvery claws digging into him, the cold, emptiness that had begun to replace his feeling of safety. Rightfully so. This world was no longer a safe place, the danger reflected in his subconscious and manifest as the terror he felt as he clutched the orb close to him and found the glow was a trick of the light. The flickering flames from a torch in the fort outside dancing across the crystaline surface of an old monk's treasure.
"He can't be..." Marrus muttered to himself, his turquoise eyes shimmering with fear and a great sadness. "He tests my faith. He tests us all." he reassured himself, holding the cold orb as if it should give him some warmth from the bitter night. Try as he might, no warmth and no sleep came to him, the pain in his chest grew more noticible and he wept softly until the first light of dawn.
He gazed upon Wolfhold with weary eyes as the sun rose, first lighting the soldier's barracks, then the feasting halls, the marketplace and finally glinting through his window, making him squint and wish that sleep had been gifted upon him by Bolerus. But there was no sleep and no favour of his god to bless him with such.
He feverishly endeavoured to comb his long chestnut-coloured hair before binding it into a neat ponytail which fell to his mid-back. He carefully unfolded and dressed in his robes, once of pure white, they had become grey with the residue of many days of travel and no more magic with which to cleanse them, the murky riverwater serving the purpose, but leaving his clothes still tarnished. He sighed as he beheld his image in the polished steel which laid by his chamberpot, stubble lining his jaw and bags under his eyes which betrayed his troubles of late.
Not that anybody would have noticed, troubles had come to everyone since the disappearance of the magic which bound the world together and of the god that had given them all of their desires in exchange for their adoration. But three months had passed since the mana shift, many had already given up hope of a return, could not bear a life without magic and abandoned their faith in Bolerus in exchange for the favour of one of the four lesser gods;
Rix, The Silver One, Great Scorpion and envoy of death and fortune. Desert dweller and spreader of madness and plague. He who took residence in the Temple of Banerook, worshipped by madmen, the desperate and the unfeeling. In return he offered some shelter from death, power over the dead and tricks of the mind. Necromancy and illusion were the magics he gave for obedience, for treachery toward fellow men, assassinations, ritual killings and the creation of undead slaves.
Kalath, The Golden One, All Knowing Whale and keeper of wisdom. Ocean dweller and commander of logic and reason above emotion. He who took residence in the Temple of Seahaven, worshipped by scholars, merchants and healers. In return he offered access to a great and ethereal library of knowledge, power to change the world as logic would dictate. healing and alteration were the magics he gave to his followers, for following the path of logic, sharing wisdom, seeking out new information and abandoning emotion.
Teuthis, The Iron One, Mighty Bear and patriarch of battle. Mountain dweller and trainer of great warriors. He who took up residence in the Temple of Stonehearth, worshipped by soldiers, athletes and tacticians. In return he offered enhanced physical strength, a hearty defense and the power to destroy. The magics he gave were of warding and destruction, for following a strict regime of battle training, conditioning toward the way of the warrior and displays of prowess in battle or domination of opponents.
Rhi, The Wooden One, Ancient Winding Tree and queen of the natural world. Forest dweller and devoted protector of each and every living creature. She who has been made a temple for her own worship and grew the sacred forest of Rhi'karion. Worshipped by the peoples of the forest, the respectful hunters and those with a healthy respect for the world. In return she offered enhanced senses, a measure of control over beast kin and magics for swift travel and summoning, for stalwart protection of the forests and all creatures as well as imminent death for those who would disrespect the living world.
With people being inducted into these religions, it was all too easy for them to forget about their one true lord, Bolerus, creator god. Marrus had to face this reality, the world was no longer a peaceful place. With disputes between factions and each pushing for supremacy, it was only a matter of time before the central lands were plunged into war, Wolfhold along with them. Marrus also knew that to cling to Bolerus was a death sentence, but his god had never abandoned hope in him, so he refused to abandon faith, even at point of blade.
Taking a sip of a strong Rhi'kar tea in an attempt to return some of his vigour, he watching as life began to flood into Wolfhold as it did every morn. Many of the townsfolk were here as refugees from the city of Pyropus, the site of the great mana explosion. Many had nothing left and begged on the cold streets before being moved along by guards, although fewer and fewer were surviving the life of a vagrant, death often hastened by individuals adorned in black robes and silver rings which skulked the town at night.
Marrus sighed as he descended the creaking wooden steps from his quarters down into the forum near the centre of the fortifications. He hoped to gather news of the day, perhaps trade what little coin he could muster for enough food to see him through the week. Another boring day in Wolfhold began again, without sleep, Marrus wearily continued his daily routine, his grey robes draping as he clutched his dull orb.
The boiling midday sun gleamed from the seemingly endless sands. A figure dressed in black hooded robes beckoned with a thin, pale finger, almost blue as if there were no life at all within him. To each side of him, clouds of dust rose into the air as bones spiralled and clung together into skeletal servants. They began work right away, scraping away at the sand until a distinctively echoing clink was heard. He had found it.
Dalarai lowered his hood, revealing his pale blue face with blood red eyes, all part and parcel of the power which flowed from his very fingertips. The power of a god, pure and unrestrained. He waved his hand as his minions lifted the stone tablet from amidst the sands, as the grains flowed into the dark hole left in its stead.
Dalarai ran a bony hand through his mohawk before stroking his goatee thoughtfully. Forcing the bones of his temporary help into dust which joined the sands, he jumped fearlessly into the chasm they had uncovered. Hitting the ground a few seconds later with a thud, he creaked as he stood back up on his feet. Clicking his fingers, his hands became aglow with an eerie light which lit up the intricate stonework around him.
The tomb was extremely cool compared to the blazing heat of the desert, although Dalarai cared about neither. His concerns were not of the mortal world, he charged himself with the business of the dead and had begun to count himself amongst their number. Whether this was true was debatable, his blood did not flow and his heart beat very slowly, but he had yet to taste the cold grip of death for himself.
Three hundred years, this place had gone undisturbed. The desert folk held to the fact that it was hidden for a reason, that it was haunted or cursed, but none of this phased Dalarai in the slightest, a faint smile revealing itself in the pale glow of his hands as he scored them across the sandstone wall. Here lies Archon Falrus II of Banerook, may a fist of silver pay passage to Rix
"Falrus..." Dalarai spoke, his voice an echoing whisper in the crypt. "The Great Scorpion calls you to his service." he continued before snatching the door from the ornate coffin, revealing a partially mummified corpse. As Dalarai looked over the ancient archon, there was a tinkling as silver coins dropped about the dusty floor. Falrus had awoken.
"The final member of the council" Dalarai laughed. "My collection is complete." he stated to himself as a wicked smile crossed his cold lips.
Gold lined the walls, the ceiling and floors, it was woven deep into the tapestries which lined the walls depicting great battles of old. One particularly large weaving displayed a giant fish rising from the ocean in a beam of sparkling light. Throughout the halls there was silence, perfect silence. This was a place of great reverence and even as cloth-swathed clergy swarmed into the sparkling halls the silence remained unbroken until a man with a magnificent flowing garment, a shaven head and a long braided beard entered from one of the alcoves.
The man was old and wrinkled, as if he had seen one too many winters, but held the gaze of every blue-robed figure now gathered. In his hands he held a curious object, a mask, golden and set with sapphires, designed to curl about the eyes but leave their gaze and allow the mouth to speak the wisdoms of the all knowing whale. He slowly donned the mask as the room filled with a low reverberating hum. The curtains were drawn back and through the shimmering glass, great golden mouth could be seen, opening and closing, as the clergy averted gaze.
The Temple of Seahaven was filled with the sounds of Oros Kalathar, High Priest of Kalath, the Golden One. His eyes began to glow a soft blue as he spoke the edicts of his lord.
"We gather here, not through fear, but through necessity." he began. "You, the faithful, the true and wise shall be brought to prosper." he continued. "It is the will of the Golden One that intelligence speak true and that in the pursuit of knowledge we shall reach depths of power unobtainable by those without the wit to grasp it."
"However." he spoke, raising a hand. "There are those who seek to take away our right to knowledge and to power. They seek to rise against The Golden One, to strike him down." he raised his other hand as he continued. "Logic dictates that any threat be eliminated lest it be allowed to take form. The armies of Teuthis, Kyros at their front, gain power each day and begin to mass on our northern borders. They are great in number, but few in brains. They forge sword, armor and shield from the fires of the mountain." A few contemplative gasps and consideratory hums could be heard from the gathering.
"To the south, our forest workforces face opposition from the Riders of Rhi, led by Olwyn, and the great beasts of the forest themselves. This cuts our supply chain and seriously damages our chances of long term survival." he spoke, stroking his beard. "So, to ensure our survival we find ourselves fighting on two fronts. We seek a time of peace. To fortify our defenses would simply delay the inevitable." he furrowed his brow.
"This is why I would seek that we prepare offensive forces and seek a fortified alliance with the Naga of the southern lakes. There is a 75% chance that one of the armies we now face was directly involved in the destruction of Bolerus... if they can destroy one god, what is to stop them from targeting Kalath now!? Logic dictates we exterminate all threats to Kalath so that we may prosper." he addressed the gathered priests once again.
"The time of inaction must end for us to see results. Kalath demands this!" he finished, removing the mask and taking a deep breath. Silence once again returned to the halls as the priests departed to spread the message to the people of Seahaven and the surrounding lands. Preparations for war had begun.
< Message edited by .Discipline -- 3/30/2012 5:34:55 >
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