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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Nov 20, 2010 16:52:10 GMT -5
Moldering pages lie, discarded and forgotten, in the dark recesses of the Undead Keep in Necropolis. No two are exactly the same. There are books bound in leather, in horn, and in human flesh; large books and small books; loose scrolls, papers, and parchments. They are variously written in ink, or blood, or charcoal. Common to them all is a symbol drawn at the end of each document: a series of vertical lines divided by a broad stroke in the middle, resembling clenched teeth, or the bars of a jail.
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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Nov 20, 2010 18:03:12 GMT -5
Written in a leather-bound book, the ink faded with age.
Feelings of premonition am I again having. So like before, before, before again; the moon-named Garden came first. Thence the Untamed land, home of Zog's cabal of earth-rivers. Riven lands followed; dark facet of danger and despair, perhaps cracked facet, where peers in the Guardian near as much as our home. Lands of the Feudal Lords, Tokuno islands are they now called, emerged last. Patterns do I see in these events, yes; another step closer do we draw to victory penultimate. Beyond...? Such glory awaits us chosen of the Guardian. Fight again, we shall, again until all the shards of Mondain's gem as ruined and dead as bones of mine, are they. Immortality, beyond it stretches; wait must I to taste final rewards of it, yes. Wait, I shall.
In newer ink on the following pages.
Dead, desolate, grey world. What purpose anymore? Long years, so many, our conquest of the world complete. Cruel fate that exist these "facets", our shard bearing different worlds within each. Sees this does the Guardian, as no other could... Within His hand does He hold our shard; His eyes perceive the facets' imperfections. His hand that cracked 'Malas', must it have been. Why not so the Garden? Preventing Him what is from blighting it? A greater power than Him, is there?
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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Nov 20, 2010 21:55:33 GMT -5
A small book with a green cover, decorated with leaf patterns. It is of an age with the last tome. The first few pages bear elven writing unrelated to the rambling of the undead.
New worlds again have opened. Elves, deer-faced, pointy-eared, into this land swarm like flies. Sucked up the swamp of pestilence, have they; undone is the Meer-brought blight. Weapons have these elves brought, soultakers deadly, yes; beautiful. Wrong could I have been? No, no, no, no, no! No! No! No! Wasteful things are they, undeserving of their lives. Soultakers will I keep, yes; their lives will we feast on.
Why slept so long have we? Forgotten have we been, our purpose revealed longer; not? His voice heard have I not these days, of them many. Umbra my time takes, hiding it among snake-roads that never run straight. Twisting, always; turning, winding, elsewhere and not the same. Time muddled enough, is it, as mortal no longer; tricks of Umbra need I not, if to serve wish I rightly to do. But awaits me does what? Grey, dead, won world; shrine unseen by all but dead as we. Souls, yes: New souls. Find them, shall I? If it is His will.
The following entries are written in faded blood.
Gathering to-day. City of cheats, mage-warriors: Trinsic be it called. Prove again, must I, might's triumph over magic? Learn do they never, never learn they do not. Gathering, yes; why? To trade, said have the Ancients. Bring they soultakers? Fleshy bits offer I will, things as have I none myself. So many of the dying have them on their head. Use for more may they have.
Missed did I merchants. Skulking treehugger did instead I find. Told me did he that late was I; earlier next time arrive would I have to, if soultakers I sought. Mentioned he weapons called "peacekeepers". Why peace would a weapon seek to keep? Bring peace of death, yes; keep peace of life, no.
Thoughts, too many there are, times current in. Space runs their prison out of. Breeding within, are they? Seek do their offspring my skull again to trouble? Spoken to Him for too long have I not. Umbra's curse! Of it free, am I not.
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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Nov 22, 2010 19:23:05 GMT -5
Written inside a spellbook, one of many lined up in a dusty storage crate. Magic keeps its pages as fresh as the day they were bound, and though the listed Words of Power and reagents have altered themselves over time, the added text remains unchanged. A dagger was stabbed through half the book at one point, leaving a hole that has not been mended.I must take advantage of this moment
of control before it leaves me.
I can only Clumsy keep it by my
hope that the UUS JUX side if I lose
strange magic myself again.
of this Bloodmoss I am dead.
book will/ Nightshade I remember
dying. But my spirit still lives somehow.
My body is under the control of a necro- -mancer, who has used it to carry out his
foul deeds. My body has done chores for
the orcs who Create Food Shadowclan.
control the IN MANI YLEM The necro-
fort northwest mancer hopes
of Britain. Garlic that they will
They are Ginseng give him their dead,
called the/ Mandake Root to use in his
experiments. He wrote his demands in a book which my body delivered to the orcs. They could
not read it, but they accepted the aid of my
body. I have Feeblemind obeyed their
watched as if REL WIS commands. My body
floating outside is not the
myself while Ginseng only undead thing
my corpse/ Nightshade here. I have
seen many skeletons walking in the forest
north of here. They move as if they still lived, they do not stumble and shuffle like my
own body does. I w i l l...
Heal
IN MANI
I have again Garlic
wrested con- Ginseng
trol. My name Spiders' Silk
(there is a hole here) was sergeant in the Britannian Guard. I was leading a patrol
in the Serpent's Spine when my men were
ambushed by a Magic Arrow from the
tribe of IN POR YLEM mountainside.
ettins. They I do not
rolled rocks Sulfurous Ash know how
down on us/ many of my
men fell after I did. Some had to survive to
take the bodies to Brit(there is a hole here) buried- and where the necromancer exhumed
mine. I am survived by my wife and young
son. I cannot Night Sight I am now,
remember your IN LOR but I know
names. I do that you would
not want you Spiders' Silk want justice.
to know what/ Sulfurous Ash Find the
necromancer. He lives in Britain. Show this
(there is a hole here)e guards with you. The new moons are almost over. I will lose
myself again soon. I spoke with one of the
undead before Reactive be free of
writing this. Armor outside control.
It said they SANCT FLAM There is a
could teach me Garlic great stone keep
to master my Sulfurous Ash north of
body again, to/Spiders' Silk the Shadowclan
fort now. I do not know(there is a hole here) the space of a month. I am to meet them there
when I can take control again.
Weaken
DES MANI
Garlic
Returned to my Nightshade
body I have been. My service is sworn to
(there is a hole here)cient Ones. Free are these undead, not slaves to necromancy.
They guard the Shadowclan & have human slaves.
The orcs must Agility the skeletons here.
have thought I EX UUS Fleshy zombies like
was one of them me live nearby,
then. There Bloodmoss and do not serve
are more than/ Mandrake Root the Ancient Ones.
If I had known I might not have sworn. But I
cannot back out now-(there is a hole here) would never have my revenge. Only their
bone magi are allowed to carry spellbooks.
I will have to Cunning
hide this in UUS WIS
one of the
supply crates. Mandrake Root
Nightshade
(there is a hole here) Clever thoughts, to hide in here. Think that
into my skull they will worm again? No- know,
do I, what the Cure is for poisonous
thoughts! Say "AN NOX", I will, and from
these pages strike the name of the flesh!
Garlic
Ginseng
(there is a hole here)
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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Nov 28, 2010 13:45:43 GMT -5
The following entries are written in sequence in one journal. There are no dates, but it seems as if some time passed between each entry. Altogether, they may span years.
Bones this day. Always, always, needing are we more. Monument, shrine, to it shall I add. Speak, bones, shall they? If His will be it.
Home. Necropolis, again to hear His voice. Claim does He that come others do. Again, life appear it in death's door? Ready do I myself make, now.
Life. Sensed have I it near Skara Brae. Gather do the dying. Their intentions tell me not does He. Myself, to see it I will have to. Tavern it is. Pixies pinned, walls to.
In the Garden on far side of moon, wane does the Guardian's power. Well of Souls did the heretics draw from. Sealed now is the Well, but power of the Guardian... Slowed is: Stopped not.
Death, and death, and death, and death again to open door to it. Shrines, build Him. Gates, open for Him. Flow then to us here will His power? If being His will, it is.
Yew, cursed land, flowers blooming. Death there lurks. Servants of servant of Guardian, kill, corrupt, defile do they the Aegis. Purpose, perhaps, now to them assist? Ask Him, I shall.
Death bring I, Aegis to. For the Guardian is it, even if thought to be daemon Charnadis's followers, is the work. In the service of the Guardian, does that one work? Ask Him, must I.
Fire. Burning. Cleansing, purifying flame. To spread, to bring freedom to the bones. Liberate them, the greedy flesh from. In every hand a burning brand. Two, enough are not. Need more arms.
They fall. The bindings fail do they. Others. Work, others must! To harvest them do I go.
Mocking fae, so like an elf. Sense, does it make? Point does it have? Circles and gyres its words flow through. Chaos in flesh; filth and lies from its lips spew.
Rothgar. Found this name in the prison have I. Warden of thoughts, is this one? How came this name to rest, the author's space within?
The bearer of this name, was I?
Again in the hall of the white leeches was it writ. My own fleshless hand, the tale of my dying days wrote, and by that name was I known. Warded the words, white leeches by; in their hall destroy it not, can I.
Soldier of the realm, would-be knight of the Order of the Silver Serpent, broken by ettin's hand, magic of necromancer fixed by. Now a monster, have I become? A terror of the dying as once I defended against?
They watch me. Trying unnoticed to be are they, but feel their eyes do I. Changes to be made, there are, this situation about. Know they not that I know they watch; surprise them, I shall.
The eyeless do not see.
The rest of the pages have been eaten away by mold. If anything was written there, it is lost now.
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Post by Zombi Rothgar on Dec 5, 2010 15:53:11 GMT -5
A rolled-up scroll resting under a desk, notably less decayed than some other documents.
To the undead, He is the Guardian; to the orcs of the Shadowclan, He was their Wargod. They knew Him first and fought in His name. They were mighty and their numbers great, but their enemies were legion. So He commanded His most faithful human followers to shed their skins and renounce all ties to the flesh. These primeval undead did not question Him and took up the duty of defending His favored children. Devoid of mortal weakness, we were steadfast, tireless, and unyielding. Orcs of the Shadowclan, hot-blooded and short-lived, fought with a rage and fury now alien to us. These qualities were the reason for our Master's favor, the reason why He allows anything to live. More precious to Him than an obedient slave was an impassioned servant.
We know Him as the Guardian, as it was our duty to be the undying shield of the Shadowclan, his mortal sword. Guardian and Destroyer both is our bipartite god.
A later addition, written slantwise across the bottom of the scroll.
How then the Crimsons? Claimed did they too to serve the Guardian. Why not to Him did they give another name? Well to call Him the Deceiver, would they have done.
Gone, Shadowclan and Crimsons both. What use a shield when shattered is the sword?
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