RE: The Heart Never Lies - Ch. 3
Hahaha I would prefer to join in the future, when the story here has...developed more. I would never use Maatmeses in it, she would be far too old and powerful to be properly playable by then, but perhaps one of the younger, future Maatmesin might make an appearance...
*
The High Priestess of Basth toyed with her gauntlets. A nervous anticipation teased her features, evident only from the slightest crease in her brow. Arrayed before them, a numberless tide of the living dead spilled forth, shambling awkwardly across the uneven sands in a macabre tide of bone and rot.
Istnofret watched the hordes spill closer. She had not been taken aback by their numbers; their armies had staggered the length of Nehekhara, and every victory bolstered their own ranks. It had come as no surprise to her that they were as numerous as the very sands themselves.
What they had in quantity, they lacked in quality. Even as she watched, the graceless corpses tripped and shuffled closer, in retaliation to the Sun Cohort’s sudden appearance. Their limbs shot out before them, legs and arms tugged in a vile parody of the movements of the living. The skeletons were not much better, she noticed, her emerald eyes flashing in the gloom. There was more of a formation to their regiments, more order, but they were thin and brittle. Just bone.
They were less than men in every respect.
By contrast, her own forces were disciplined, strong, skilled, and filled with a passion that the risen dead could never imitate. These men, the Sun Cohort of Prince Imrathepis, were the pride of Numas. They would fight to defend their city, their home, with their very last breath. The dead would crumble before their fearless might, and the brutal strength of their spears and khopesh.
The priestess tugged gently at the gauntlets that clung to her fists, her delicate fingers sliding the length of the talons that emerged, claw-like, from their end. They would tear the soft, spoiled flesh of the enemy, and return them to the sands from whence they came. It was where they belonged. They had no right to walk the deserts, trapped by the dark magics that animated them.
The guardians of Numas advanced, and Istnofret’s priests with them, marching under the clouded skies toward the hordes of dead. The plan had begun. Their fates rested in the hands of the gods now. She took another deep breath, calm and in control. May Basth watch over all of them.
The enemy were repulsive. She could see them in the distance, her keen sight picking out individual monsters as they stumbled closer. Some were the recently deceased, their bodies corrupted by potent magics, their eyes lit like eerie braziers. Others were little more than skin and bone, dry and papery, having long dwelt under the hot, waterless sands of the deserts.
Their awakening was blasphemy! The dead were sacred! She would see to it that they were banished, laid to rest once more, and Numas saved. It was the least she owed the desert kingdoms, for the involvement that she felt. She was born in Lahmia, and the fell captains of their enemy were once her rulers, her priests, her nobles, all those decades ago.
More horns sounded aloud, ringing stark and true under the overcast skies. The noises echoed the honour and bravery that filled each of the men’s hearts. She could feel it in the air, in the grim grit of their teeth, the steely glares of their eyes. These men would fight for Nehekhara, and she with them.
It was her duty to see the once noble Lahmians slain, and the evil that they stood for destroyed forever. She owed it to Basth, to her priests and to the men and women of Numas, but she owed it to her memory of Lahmia, too. It had not always been a city of monsters. There had been love there, her love, and family. Her mother and father, who had died when she was little more than a child, and her sister, who through her irrepressible love she had hurt so much. They were all long dead, but their memories lived on, and she would honour them.
Basth would honour them!
“Forward!†cried a voice up ahead, that she recognised as belonging to Imrathepis. It was strong. True. A voice worthy of a prince. All around her, his legion picked up their pace, a constant march across the unusually grey sands toward their vile foe. She and her own priests kept pace, marching at the centre of the formation, protected on all sides from the depredations of the undead. Their golden staffs shone dully in the lightless skies. Without the sun, they were robbed of their gleaming magnificence.
That would all change, soon.
To her right, trusted Nebankh clutched a talisman and muttered under his breath. She recognised the blessings of Basth when she heard them; they were as much a part of her as her hair, her eyes, or her soul. All around her, the other priests were invoking similar rites, their mumbled blessings and swift incantations summoning the attentions of the beautiful cat goddess and requesting her aid.
They had nothing to worry about. She could feel the blessing of Basth coursing through her body, filling her limbs with an ancient vigour that belied mortal comprehension. Their goddess was with them, and would watch over her most favoured disciples with a keen interest. Of this, Istnofret was sure.
The dead were almost upon them now. She could hear the groans that burst from their broken throats, the grunts and sighs that slipped into the air in a terrifying chorus of deathly noise. The skeletons marched silently, staring through their eyeless sockets and grinning mockingly, that irreversible smile etched on their taunting skulls. They were a morbid reminder of the fate that awaited the men of Numas, should they fall in battle.
They would make sure they did not.
With the unnatural sounds came an even worse smell, of pus, and grime, and the dust of the necropolises. Istnofret recognised the stench of rotten fish, for she had smelled it before, when scraps were carried into her temple by blessed Basth’s cats. Their enemies’ eyes were creamy white, like spoiled milk, and shone with a sick light that mirrored the glare of the dark moon of Neru.
Everything about them was repulsive.
They were metres away now. In a minute, the Sun Cohort would reach them, with their sharp spears and deadly aim. Now was the time to act. Slowing to a standstill, Istnofret turned to her contingent of priests. They looked at her through aged eyes, rheumy with wisdom and understanding.
“Devoted of blessed Basth, begin the Incantation of Jaded Healing! For the graceful goddess Basth, and for Numas!†Her words slipped strong and husky from between her lips, a voice of defiance, and beauty. Her priests recognised the voice of Basth when they heard it, and as one they began to chant. They spoke in unison, their arms upraised, staffs held high, and slowly, with a confidence amassed from decades of practice, their incantation took form.
Even as she chanted Istnofret looked up, and saw the clouds beginning to move. They barely inched across the skies, great black thunderclouds, swollen and thick in the air, but they moved nevertheless, and she knew that back at Numas, safely behind the city walls, the priests of Phakth had begun their own incantations. That left only High Priest Harkhef and the acolytes of the Sun God.
As though on command, a searing flash of light tore into existence, flashing behind her like breaking dawn, and she knew without turning that the Incantation of Searing Brilliance had taken hold. The walls would be safe from the fell attentions of the undead, while Ptra’s priests chanted.
Then all thought was lost to her mind, for with a gut-wrenching clash the forces of Imrathepis collided with the despondent dead, and reason lost all meaning to the screams and butchery of battle.
Hahaha I would prefer to join in the future, when the story here has...developed more. I would never use Maatmeses in it, she would be far too old and powerful to be properly playable by then, but perhaps one of the younger, future Maatmesin might make an appearance...
*
The High Priestess of Basth toyed with her gauntlets. A nervous anticipation teased her features, evident only from the slightest crease in her brow. Arrayed before them, a numberless tide of the living dead spilled forth, shambling awkwardly across the uneven sands in a macabre tide of bone and rot.
Istnofret watched the hordes spill closer. She had not been taken aback by their numbers; their armies had staggered the length of Nehekhara, and every victory bolstered their own ranks. It had come as no surprise to her that they were as numerous as the very sands themselves.
What they had in quantity, they lacked in quality. Even as she watched, the graceless corpses tripped and shuffled closer, in retaliation to the Sun Cohort’s sudden appearance. Their limbs shot out before them, legs and arms tugged in a vile parody of the movements of the living. The skeletons were not much better, she noticed, her emerald eyes flashing in the gloom. There was more of a formation to their regiments, more order, but they were thin and brittle. Just bone.
They were less than men in every respect.
By contrast, her own forces were disciplined, strong, skilled, and filled with a passion that the risen dead could never imitate. These men, the Sun Cohort of Prince Imrathepis, were the pride of Numas. They would fight to defend their city, their home, with their very last breath. The dead would crumble before their fearless might, and the brutal strength of their spears and khopesh.
The priestess tugged gently at the gauntlets that clung to her fists, her delicate fingers sliding the length of the talons that emerged, claw-like, from their end. They would tear the soft, spoiled flesh of the enemy, and return them to the sands from whence they came. It was where they belonged. They had no right to walk the deserts, trapped by the dark magics that animated them.
The guardians of Numas advanced, and Istnofret’s priests with them, marching under the clouded skies toward the hordes of dead. The plan had begun. Their fates rested in the hands of the gods now. She took another deep breath, calm and in control. May Basth watch over all of them.
The enemy were repulsive. She could see them in the distance, her keen sight picking out individual monsters as they stumbled closer. Some were the recently deceased, their bodies corrupted by potent magics, their eyes lit like eerie braziers. Others were little more than skin and bone, dry and papery, having long dwelt under the hot, waterless sands of the deserts.
Their awakening was blasphemy! The dead were sacred! She would see to it that they were banished, laid to rest once more, and Numas saved. It was the least she owed the desert kingdoms, for the involvement that she felt. She was born in Lahmia, and the fell captains of their enemy were once her rulers, her priests, her nobles, all those decades ago.
More horns sounded aloud, ringing stark and true under the overcast skies. The noises echoed the honour and bravery that filled each of the men’s hearts. She could feel it in the air, in the grim grit of their teeth, the steely glares of their eyes. These men would fight for Nehekhara, and she with them.
It was her duty to see the once noble Lahmians slain, and the evil that they stood for destroyed forever. She owed it to Basth, to her priests and to the men and women of Numas, but she owed it to her memory of Lahmia, too. It had not always been a city of monsters. There had been love there, her love, and family. Her mother and father, who had died when she was little more than a child, and her sister, who through her irrepressible love she had hurt so much. They were all long dead, but their memories lived on, and she would honour them.
Basth would honour them!
“Forward!†cried a voice up ahead, that she recognised as belonging to Imrathepis. It was strong. True. A voice worthy of a prince. All around her, his legion picked up their pace, a constant march across the unusually grey sands toward their vile foe. She and her own priests kept pace, marching at the centre of the formation, protected on all sides from the depredations of the undead. Their golden staffs shone dully in the lightless skies. Without the sun, they were robbed of their gleaming magnificence.
That would all change, soon.
To her right, trusted Nebankh clutched a talisman and muttered under his breath. She recognised the blessings of Basth when she heard them; they were as much a part of her as her hair, her eyes, or her soul. All around her, the other priests were invoking similar rites, their mumbled blessings and swift incantations summoning the attentions of the beautiful cat goddess and requesting her aid.
They had nothing to worry about. She could feel the blessing of Basth coursing through her body, filling her limbs with an ancient vigour that belied mortal comprehension. Their goddess was with them, and would watch over her most favoured disciples with a keen interest. Of this, Istnofret was sure.
The dead were almost upon them now. She could hear the groans that burst from their broken throats, the grunts and sighs that slipped into the air in a terrifying chorus of deathly noise. The skeletons marched silently, staring through their eyeless sockets and grinning mockingly, that irreversible smile etched on their taunting skulls. They were a morbid reminder of the fate that awaited the men of Numas, should they fall in battle.
They would make sure they did not.
With the unnatural sounds came an even worse smell, of pus, and grime, and the dust of the necropolises. Istnofret recognised the stench of rotten fish, for she had smelled it before, when scraps were carried into her temple by blessed Basth’s cats. Their enemies’ eyes were creamy white, like spoiled milk, and shone with a sick light that mirrored the glare of the dark moon of Neru.
Everything about them was repulsive.
They were metres away now. In a minute, the Sun Cohort would reach them, with their sharp spears and deadly aim. Now was the time to act. Slowing to a standstill, Istnofret turned to her contingent of priests. They looked at her through aged eyes, rheumy with wisdom and understanding.
“Devoted of blessed Basth, begin the Incantation of Jaded Healing! For the graceful goddess Basth, and for Numas!†Her words slipped strong and husky from between her lips, a voice of defiance, and beauty. Her priests recognised the voice of Basth when they heard it, and as one they began to chant. They spoke in unison, their arms upraised, staffs held high, and slowly, with a confidence amassed from decades of practice, their incantation took form.
Even as she chanted Istnofret looked up, and saw the clouds beginning to move. They barely inched across the skies, great black thunderclouds, swollen and thick in the air, but they moved nevertheless, and she knew that back at Numas, safely behind the city walls, the priests of Phakth had begun their own incantations. That left only High Priest Harkhef and the acolytes of the Sun God.
As though on command, a searing flash of light tore into existence, flashing behind her like breaking dawn, and she knew without turning that the Incantation of Searing Brilliance had taken hold. The walls would be safe from the fell attentions of the undead, while Ptra’s priests chanted.
Then all thought was lost to her mind, for with a gut-wrenching clash the forces of Imrathepis collided with the despondent dead, and reason lost all meaning to the screams and butchery of battle.
I have to down play V'azrin and hes only second Gen
Wow! That was brilliant 