Post by Ninmast on Sept 19, 2008 18:54:25 GMT -5
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Dead World, Location Unknown
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The smell of blood filled the air. In the middle of the plain, a great basin rested, filled to the brim with the blood of an entire civilization. Raver-driven people drained the blood of their kin. As they became the final three, one would drain another as the possessing Raver returned to the side of their shrouded master. When only one remained, he, himself approached the man as the Raver left the body, leaving him to stare up in horror at the two glowing, red, fang-like eyes in the middle of the cloud of darkness. As he stared, the cloud dissipated, leaving a white-cloaked, white-haired man of undefinable age, so physically perfect that he couldn't be mortal.
"Who- Who are you?" the man stuttered.
"I am called many things," the being answered, and the man cringed. His voice, though verbally perfect, possessed such a venom that it burned the ears just to hear it. "But you may use the one I have come to like the most."
A million images and a hundred tongues forced their way into the man's mind, causing him to scream at the pain. Image after image of suffering, hatred, ... Despite. As they settled, burned into his mind for the rest of his short life, the man spoke, broken. "Foul Despiser ..."
Lord Foul took the man's chin in his hand and lifted it up. "Be still, mortal, for your last moments shall be in tribute to an immortal. Your lowly soul cannot hope for more. And there will be no one to miss you, as they have all gone before you. You are the last. Take what solace or pain you will in that." He gave the man a perfect smile. "Though I recommend the latter." And the man's head exploded, spilling his blood into the basin below.
The Despiser walked back down to his previous position on the air, itself, and turned back toward the basin as he raised his hands, venomous green lightning flashing from the sky as red energy flared about his form. "Great Lord Cyric, I, Lord Foul, The Despiser, Brother of The Creator, lower myself before you and admit your greater power, and ask that you grant me your aid in my plans so that they may bring even more greatness unto you! May this sacrifice of the blood of a civilization please you, oh Cyric, and may you grant me an audience with Your Greatness!"
A great blast of crimson lightning erupted from the sky, and parts of it in turn became red that matched the blood of the soaked ground that hung below it. One of the blasts of lightning struck the earth, and a man in black robes stepped forth. His body irradiating with red unholy energy of darkness. His eyes, a crimson glow, gazed upon the summoner.
"Your sacrifice has been noted, and accepted. You have been granted audience with Cyric. Make it worth my time." The man said, vibrations seemed to echo outward, giving to emotions of negativity and darkness...
Foul bent down upon his knees before Cyric, his Ravers doing likewise behind him. "Greetings, Oh Great One. I have a plan that would bring your darkness down upon all of the mortal realms. All I require is the cover of your power and the aid of your forces to supplement my own, and I can bring all of the gods down upon their knees before you. Would that interest you, Your Greatness?"
Cyric thought for a moment, before he spoke again, his voice calm, and smooth, but still sending out the negaitve vibrations.
"Your proposal has intersted me. What is it that you have planned to bestow such power unto me?" Cyric questioned.
"I shall bring my power to bear against the Material Plane under your banner. I shall cover it in darkness and suffering. I shall turn one mortal soul against another until they rend each others' throats. The whole realm shall be clasped in the iron fist of fear and hatred, shadows of death, so deep that even the light of Lathander shall not break through to sooth their blood-soaked faces," Foul responded. "And in that waking nightmare, the weakness of their beings shall bend to the only influence that fills their minds, that of the Great Lord of Three Crowns."
Cyric stood for a few moments. He could sense something in the man's words, and then he spoke...
"And what is it that thou requests?" Cyric questioned.
"Revenge."
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Faerun
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A cold wind from the north had begun to blow, heralding an unusually early winter. Wolves seemed to be claiming more and more of farmers' livestock, and eyewitness reports claimed they were bigger than any breed they were familiar with, and mottled. Well, the eyewitnesses that survived, anyway.
The lord of the province had put out a call for those who would come to the province's aid. Details were to be provided upon arrival. The first step any would take in approaching the castle of Lord Alean would be to enter the city surrounding it, the large, bustling city of Neverwinter.
Dead World, Location Unknown
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The smell of blood filled the air. In the middle of the plain, a great basin rested, filled to the brim with the blood of an entire civilization. Raver-driven people drained the blood of their kin. As they became the final three, one would drain another as the possessing Raver returned to the side of their shrouded master. When only one remained, he, himself approached the man as the Raver left the body, leaving him to stare up in horror at the two glowing, red, fang-like eyes in the middle of the cloud of darkness. As he stared, the cloud dissipated, leaving a white-cloaked, white-haired man of undefinable age, so physically perfect that he couldn't be mortal.
"Who- Who are you?" the man stuttered.
"I am called many things," the being answered, and the man cringed. His voice, though verbally perfect, possessed such a venom that it burned the ears just to hear it. "But you may use the one I have come to like the most."
A million images and a hundred tongues forced their way into the man's mind, causing him to scream at the pain. Image after image of suffering, hatred, ... Despite. As they settled, burned into his mind for the rest of his short life, the man spoke, broken. "Foul Despiser ..."
Lord Foul took the man's chin in his hand and lifted it up. "Be still, mortal, for your last moments shall be in tribute to an immortal. Your lowly soul cannot hope for more. And there will be no one to miss you, as they have all gone before you. You are the last. Take what solace or pain you will in that." He gave the man a perfect smile. "Though I recommend the latter." And the man's head exploded, spilling his blood into the basin below.
The Despiser walked back down to his previous position on the air, itself, and turned back toward the basin as he raised his hands, venomous green lightning flashing from the sky as red energy flared about his form. "Great Lord Cyric, I, Lord Foul, The Despiser, Brother of The Creator, lower myself before you and admit your greater power, and ask that you grant me your aid in my plans so that they may bring even more greatness unto you! May this sacrifice of the blood of a civilization please you, oh Cyric, and may you grant me an audience with Your Greatness!"
A great blast of crimson lightning erupted from the sky, and parts of it in turn became red that matched the blood of the soaked ground that hung below it. One of the blasts of lightning struck the earth, and a man in black robes stepped forth. His body irradiating with red unholy energy of darkness. His eyes, a crimson glow, gazed upon the summoner.
"Your sacrifice has been noted, and accepted. You have been granted audience with Cyric. Make it worth my time." The man said, vibrations seemed to echo outward, giving to emotions of negativity and darkness...
Foul bent down upon his knees before Cyric, his Ravers doing likewise behind him. "Greetings, Oh Great One. I have a plan that would bring your darkness down upon all of the mortal realms. All I require is the cover of your power and the aid of your forces to supplement my own, and I can bring all of the gods down upon their knees before you. Would that interest you, Your Greatness?"
Cyric thought for a moment, before he spoke again, his voice calm, and smooth, but still sending out the negaitve vibrations.
"Your proposal has intersted me. What is it that you have planned to bestow such power unto me?" Cyric questioned.
"I shall bring my power to bear against the Material Plane under your banner. I shall cover it in darkness and suffering. I shall turn one mortal soul against another until they rend each others' throats. The whole realm shall be clasped in the iron fist of fear and hatred, shadows of death, so deep that even the light of Lathander shall not break through to sooth their blood-soaked faces," Foul responded. "And in that waking nightmare, the weakness of their beings shall bend to the only influence that fills their minds, that of the Great Lord of Three Crowns."
Cyric stood for a few moments. He could sense something in the man's words, and then he spoke...
"And what is it that thou requests?" Cyric questioned.
"Revenge."
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Faerun
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A cold wind from the north had begun to blow, heralding an unusually early winter. Wolves seemed to be claiming more and more of farmers' livestock, and eyewitness reports claimed they were bigger than any breed they were familiar with, and mottled. Well, the eyewitnesses that survived, anyway.
The lord of the province had put out a call for those who would come to the province's aid. Details were to be provided upon arrival. The first step any would take in approaching the castle of Lord Alean would be to enter the city surrounding it, the large, bustling city of Neverwinter.