The great god Ptra irradiated the listless earth in his fury, parching the sands and searing the accursed remains of the once blessed lands. No water, brimming with the vigor of life, snaked its way through the aged earth and blighted sands. Neither glorious structures nor verdant plains nor bustling crowds adorned the horizon. A single figure trudged through the godforsaken lands. The sun god spared no mercy, his benevolence long lost to the dune crouched lands, and struck the garbed being with gleaming spears of radiant light. As if relenting he collapsed to his knees, his sand colored cloak sprawling about him like the wings of the holy carrion come to reap the souls of the dying and ferry them unto the underworld. He bowed his head before the bleached statue of Djaf, the god of the dead, his forehead singing as it pressed against the burning sands. A prayer played across his cracked lips before with an extraordinary effort, he pushed himself to his feet, cloak swirling about him like a vicious desert asp. Driven by an insurmountable will he continued resumed his travel.
The vista exploded into shimmering shards of light and fell away as if brushed aside.
Bright pinpricks of light punctuated the darkness, refusing to relent to the utter darkness which encroached upon them. Their audacity further compounded by their sheer reluctance to coalesce into a single form, ebbing and flowing as if on whim driven by neither rhyme nor reason. The rustle of age old parchment echoed through shadow slicked corridors, consumed by the blackness which seemed to stem from the very bowls of hell. Only by virtue of the staunch, unbowed torches which bedecked the ancient halls was the pall of shadow held out bay. With great reverence, scrolls were unfurled, and with a delicate touch tomes were opened. The musings and observations of venerable scholars and wise men of long lost land were read and their secrets plied. They did not discuss mastery of magic, although the arcane was referenced frequently, nor the arts of war and battle, although their blood soaked realms were at time traversed. Rather it was dissertations of the mind and soul which were devoured ferociously by the intruder. He gleaned their hidden truths and contemplated the mysteries they espoused.
The hungry maw of darkness consumed the scene once more.
The screams of madmen clawed reality into a decisive form, etching unholy ravings into its rational form. One such lunatic was strapped to a wooden chair, his eyes vibrating and rolling as if he were possessed. The tortured scream of the damned wrenched its way past his lips and rent the air asunder. A middle aged man sat cross legged in front of the howling maniac, an island of calm in a raging tempest. He was at peace, a single hand held languidly out in front of him, his index finger pressed against the center of the lunatic’s forehead. His breathing was controlled as he mustered his being to exude an aura of sheer calm and equipoise, willing his pheromones and the unseen energies which riddled the human body to work in concert with his design. Slowly the man began to calm, his scream dying on his lips, his once erratic breathing leveling out, his pupils contracted until they were of a normal size. Releasing his body from the stricture of utter self control, the middle aged man sagged with exhaustion born of mental labors, yet a smile danced upon his lips. He had succeeded.
The panorama seemed to warble before reasserting itself.
An elderly sage sat in the lotus position, the air seeming to waver about his, contorted by dreadful energies. A heavy stone door before him seemed o bend inward under the baleful forces of some malign source. Shouted commands and curse slipped through the doorway, but the sage paid them no mind. He seemed to visibly relax, and with a great inrush of air he exploded into withering flames.
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The door imploded with the grating stone and a figure stepped gracefully through the dust. She was bedecked in the regal finery befitting a noblewoman, a tight fitting gown clinging to her undead flesh. The Lahmian glared in barely repressed rage at the empty chamber before her, there was not doubt in her mind that her quarry had vanished. With a very unlady like snarl she twirled in her heel. Her two sisters stepped gingerly over the debris, their eyes sharing the same anger.
“Search the remainder of this repugnant…†she slid a finger languidly over the smooth stone wall, her finger came away slick with dirt and dust “excuse for a hovel,†she hissed whilst contemptuously flicking away the grime.
“There is no time to waste; we ride in an hour’s time.â€Â
Bowing their heads respectfully, the two Lahmians slipped back through the doorway, soundlessly relaying orders to their mindless servants.
The elder sister was about to storm out of the chamber in their wake but was halted by the soft sound of meowing. A tiny jet black kitten gazed into her eyes fearlessly crouched before a desk atop of which lay a single leather bound tome. Striding forward she gingerly retrieved the tome and smiled.
Perhaps this venture has not all been for naught.
Glancing down at the hapless kitten she bent smoothly and scooped it up, before quickly exiting the chamber.
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He blinked slowly. His vision cleared, his surrounding solidifying around him. He felt the touch of a familiar feline presence before a foreign intelligence pressured his mind. Memories which were not his flooded his mind and the nature of his environment became clear. They were close to the infamous Blood Keep, Todd having been sent forth to parlay with the keep’s dreadful commander.
Jeremiah’s fingers instinctively curled about the spine of the leather bound tome which he carried for as long as he cared to remember. Where once he had shouldered it out of habit, as if unconsciously slaved to the book, it now seemed very familiar, like a long lost friend.