09-13-2018, 09:46 AM
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Alive only with the ornery thickness of an ancient bitterness – woeful Pangea stretches taut before his glitter-dark eyes. The faint glimmer of something pulsing, beating (<i>sick, sick, sick</i>) sings out for him – but it is a symphony of terror and his shadows tug at his heels, echoing the voice that spreads through his mind like wildfire. <i>”Find her heart.”</i> They feel at home down here in the murky depths of this atrocious sunken Atlantis. Khaedrik moves – and he feels sluggish and weak – as if the blood in his veins should coagulate and turn him into a beast of mud and void. The black waters soughs and sighs around him as he weaves through the forgotten path, under the ancient trees of Pangea. The isle is a nightmare, a breeding ground of terror, and the faint light that paints the path glitter-green makes his heart stutter.
The wrongness of Pangea makes him skittish, and yet Khaedrik moves with a purpose he seldom has, and the shadows seethe with excitement. He keeps them close, for company perhaps, or fear for what hides down there in the labyrinthine depths of Pangea. He pauses beneath a yew tree; it, forbidding and malevolent, as its gnarled branches stretch high to cup a moonlight that have long since abandoned this place. Only darkness reign here – and the shadows fall in intricate patterns, brushing his bright-gold coat black, black, black. Life itself seems to have slowed, for the remarkable absence of teeming noise is louder than ever.
He raises his head, and suddenly the still waters turn hard, gusting. The eerie creak of the old branches makes him nervous. A wail rises above the din. It is as if the wind is whistling through a hole in the trunk of his yew tree. But there is no wind down here – and the sound is an angry shout; surprise and betrayal. He faces the fury of the land’s own magic. Khaedrik turns his face away from the furious undercurrent that now seeks to uproot him. It is too powerful, and his breathing is shallow, and his body trembles with the urge to flight, but he will not abandon his path. The sickness buried beneath golden skin (slick with sweat and murky water) drives him on. He has faced the terrifying delirium of madness before. His feet – sprawling and digging for hold against the slippery mud trembles against the onslaught – his head pulsates with the deafening roar of the sea. His body is an osmosis of terror and sick-black water. He can taste the anger of the sea on the tip of his tongue and fear grips him with her long claws. But Khaedrik – damned double and twice over – refuses to give in to the sea and her senseless wrath.
You, Crone, cannot overcome.
He turns his head back against the storm, and his features burn with an inner fire, righteous-hot in the dark shadows of his eyes as he leans into the storm. He feels the silk bright brush of magic along his veins, along the curvature of his body. He shudders but does not shy. But the sea calms, abruptly. The land quiets herself, and his breath (hitched behind his clenched teeth) steadies once more. He has passed the test, he thinks, naively, foolishly.
He moves on – follows the path of ailing green and the heart that now beats in rhythm with his own (fever-hot and faint). He struggles now – on sick-weak limbs and with labored breath – to follow the path pregnant with stagnant pools of fungus children, draped in the robes of disease and shadow, reeking of antiquity, rot, suffocation.
He smells it before the click-clack of hooves against rock meet his ear – it reeks of ruination and decay – and the sound an orchestra of terror and sick magic. A flash of something mud-brown and shining catches his eye (pomegranate-red with fever and delusion) and he staggers on – on his retina there is a sea-nymph, mahogany and valiant with sea-foam eyes and a smile like yawning galaxies. Grieving for a dream made fleshy and tempting he stumbles to meet <s>her</s> <i>it.</i>
Oh but it is not a reverie that meets his fever-bright eyes as he trudges on through the now long-since still water resisting his advances and slapping at his legs, leaving ugly dark stains on the golden skin, but a nightmare. A beast – welded of disease and twisted magic. It might have been horse once – sinewy and proud – but these lands no longer remember its name, and it has sunk hard into the bottomless pit of the forgotten. There it has lain in wait, with knife-sharp teeth and hungry eyes, for someone, something. It is a monstrous thing – spun of mud-brown patches of decaying skin and dirt-white bone, seaweed twining its legs like rotting vines. Death oozes from it veins, stains the skin darker and its jaws part wide and a vicious gargle bubble from its parched throat (or what is left of it). Its teeth clamp together, and it hisses its displeasure.
But he has no sword, to stab at the elation of his nightmares. Tension roils beneath his skin – wasted, ready and looking for a little courage – but the monster, jaw unhinged and rake-sharp teeth showing, charges. Pale gums that end in yellowed teeth reach for his skin, ah, there is hunger in those eyes – unseeing now and <i>dead, dead, dead</i> - but there is no doubt he is to be devoured. He feels the sharp pain of something rake-sharp against his shoulder, before his own magic springs to life. <i>Leave</i> his shadows whisper. <i>Let us take you home</i> and Khaedrik remembers, but his will is no longer his own. <i>Find her heart</i> echoes the voice in his sickened mind. Instead of fleeing – he sends his shadow-wolf charging – snarling and wicked, yellow-eyed and just as much avid monster as the thing now seeking to destroy him. In the blink of an eye, the creature is engulfed in shadow and wolf-teeth and the wet noise of disintegrating flesh and brittle bone crushing is a psalm to his ears. A psalm that lulls his soul into deceitful calm. He stumbles – falls to his knees. Blood oozes from his shoulder with each drumbeat thud of his heart. His head throbs – as if some small part of his mind is trying to claw itself out of his mangled body.
<i>Find. Her. Heart.</i>
Bundles of nerves wrapped up in nerves, he twitches and trembles as he once more staggers to his feet – stumbling over mud and rock to follow the sick green light further down the path that leads to death or almost death, to the heart that calls his name with every sick beat. The light grows brighter and brighter still as he nears – and his mind, scattered, broken, no longer feels the pain of his shoulder. The crater is a welcome sight to Khaedrik’s fever-bright eyes and he careens down its slopes in agitated frenzy until he finally collapses at the bottom, engulfed in green light and shadow. He has found her heart.
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Obstacle 1: Underwater storm
Obstacle 2: Zombie horse consumed by Khaedriks shadow-creation
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Alive only with the ornery thickness of an ancient bitterness – woeful Pangea stretches taut before his glitter-dark eyes. The faint glimmer of something pulsing, beating (<i>sick, sick, sick</i>) sings out for him – but it is a symphony of terror and his shadows tug at his heels, echoing the voice that spreads through his mind like wildfire. <i>”Find her heart.”</i> They feel at home down here in the murky depths of this atrocious sunken Atlantis. Khaedrik moves – and he feels sluggish and weak – as if the blood in his veins should coagulate and turn him into a beast of mud and void. The black waters soughs and sighs around him as he weaves through the forgotten path, under the ancient trees of Pangea. The isle is a nightmare, a breeding ground of terror, and the faint light that paints the path glitter-green makes his heart stutter.
The wrongness of Pangea makes him skittish, and yet Khaedrik moves with a purpose he seldom has, and the shadows seethe with excitement. He keeps them close, for company perhaps, or fear for what hides down there in the labyrinthine depths of Pangea. He pauses beneath a yew tree; it, forbidding and malevolent, as its gnarled branches stretch high to cup a moonlight that have long since abandoned this place. Only darkness reign here – and the shadows fall in intricate patterns, brushing his bright-gold coat black, black, black. Life itself seems to have slowed, for the remarkable absence of teeming noise is louder than ever.
He raises his head, and suddenly the still waters turn hard, gusting. The eerie creak of the old branches makes him nervous. A wail rises above the din. It is as if the wind is whistling through a hole in the trunk of his yew tree. But there is no wind down here – and the sound is an angry shout; surprise and betrayal. He faces the fury of the land’s own magic. Khaedrik turns his face away from the furious undercurrent that now seeks to uproot him. It is too powerful, and his breathing is shallow, and his body trembles with the urge to flight, but he will not abandon his path. The sickness buried beneath golden skin (slick with sweat and murky water) drives him on. He has faced the terrifying delirium of madness before. His feet – sprawling and digging for hold against the slippery mud trembles against the onslaught – his head pulsates with the deafening roar of the sea. His body is an osmosis of terror and sick-black water. He can taste the anger of the sea on the tip of his tongue and fear grips him with her long claws. But Khaedrik – damned double and twice over – refuses to give in to the sea and her senseless wrath.
You, Crone, cannot overcome.
He turns his head back against the storm, and his features burn with an inner fire, righteous-hot in the dark shadows of his eyes as he leans into the storm. He feels the silk bright brush of magic along his veins, along the curvature of his body. He shudders but does not shy. But the sea calms, abruptly. The land quiets herself, and his breath (hitched behind his clenched teeth) steadies once more. He has passed the test, he thinks, naively, foolishly.
He moves on – follows the path of ailing green and the heart that now beats in rhythm with his own (fever-hot and faint). He struggles now – on sick-weak limbs and with labored breath – to follow the path pregnant with stagnant pools of fungus children, draped in the robes of disease and shadow, reeking of antiquity, rot, suffocation.
He smells it before the click-clack of hooves against rock meet his ear – it reeks of ruination and decay – and the sound an orchestra of terror and sick magic. A flash of something mud-brown and shining catches his eye (pomegranate-red with fever and delusion) and he staggers on – on his retina there is a sea-nymph, mahogany and valiant with sea-foam eyes and a smile like yawning galaxies. Grieving for a dream made fleshy and tempting he stumbles to meet <s>her</s> <i>it.</i>
Oh but it is not a reverie that meets his fever-bright eyes as he trudges on through the now long-since still water resisting his advances and slapping at his legs, leaving ugly dark stains on the golden skin, but a nightmare. A beast – welded of disease and twisted magic. It might have been horse once – sinewy and proud – but these lands no longer remember its name, and it has sunk hard into the bottomless pit of the forgotten. There it has lain in wait, with knife-sharp teeth and hungry eyes, for someone, something. It is a monstrous thing – spun of mud-brown patches of decaying skin and dirt-white bone, seaweed twining its legs like rotting vines. Death oozes from it veins, stains the skin darker and its jaws part wide and a vicious gargle bubble from its parched throat (or what is left of it). Its teeth clamp together, and it hisses its displeasure.
But he has no sword, to stab at the elation of his nightmares. Tension roils beneath his skin – wasted, ready and looking for a little courage – but the monster, jaw unhinged and rake-sharp teeth showing, charges. Pale gums that end in yellowed teeth reach for his skin, ah, there is hunger in those eyes – unseeing now and <i>dead, dead, dead</i> - but there is no doubt he is to be devoured. He feels the sharp pain of something rake-sharp against his shoulder, before his own magic springs to life. <i>Leave</i> his shadows whisper. <i>Let us take you home</i> and Khaedrik remembers, but his will is no longer his own. <i>Find her heart</i> echoes the voice in his sickened mind. Instead of fleeing – he sends his shadow-wolf charging – snarling and wicked, yellow-eyed and just as much avid monster as the thing now seeking to destroy him. In the blink of an eye, the creature is engulfed in shadow and wolf-teeth and the wet noise of disintegrating flesh and brittle bone crushing is a psalm to his ears. A psalm that lulls his soul into deceitful calm. He stumbles – falls to his knees. Blood oozes from his shoulder with each drumbeat thud of his heart. His head throbs – as if some small part of his mind is trying to claw itself out of his mangled body.
<i>Find. Her. Heart.</i>
Bundles of nerves wrapped up in nerves, he twitches and trembles as he once more staggers to his feet – stumbling over mud and rock to follow the sick green light further down the path that leads to death or almost death, to the heart that calls his name with every sick beat. The light grows brighter and brighter still as he nears – and his mind, scattered, broken, no longer feels the pain of his shoulder. The crater is a welcome sight to Khaedrik’s fever-bright eyes and he careens down its slopes in agitated frenzy until he finally collapses at the bottom, engulfed in green light and shadow. He has found her heart.
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Obstacle 1: Underwater storm
Obstacle 2: Zombie horse consumed by Khaedriks shadow-creation