II.
II.
Jomil the Hermitess, Wilderlands (Berevar)
Aspect: Wisdom, Unmaking, Entropy, Amphibians, Chaos, Introversion, and Sadness.
Center of Worship: Technically, it is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Jomil travels constantly, thus taking the “axis mundi” of her influence with her wherever she goes. She never stays in one place for too long, although she always returns to a region of Berevar she refers to as the Wilderlands.
Manifestation: Female. Almost always, she manifests as a humanoid clad in a ragged, burlap robe. According to accounts, however, of those who saw her bare skin, she has a pale blue-green tinge to her flesh, with irregularly placed dark teal flecks, and rivals the beauty of her sister V’dralla. Despite her dress, she seems impervious to Salvar’s biting cold. Also known as the “Queen of Unmaking,” because in her presence, there is a high chance that mortal-crafted objects begin to corrode.
Mannerisms: Extremely humble, and assumes everyone thinks she’s hideous as most of the attention has been given to her sister, V’dralla. A quiet and gentle soul, she has tendencies to collapse into herself and leave everything behind (often in ruins). Nearly obsessed with her appearance, although in a tragic, negative sense. One of her biggest flaws can be her tendency to be self-defeating. Slavic in theme.
Acts Attributed to Jomil: Mushrooms in a staggered line (said to sprout in her footsteps), devolution, retrograde motion of stars, low tide, wilting of plant life.
Chief Relic: The Icehenge (See Relics and Artifacts).Excerpt from the Codex of Thayne Lore
Berevar - The Ice Henge
The Ice Henge in all its frozen glory was a spectacle unlike any other. Its origins were lost to time, and its purpose, more so. Only the Old Gods knew of its current machinations, and even they were foggy about it. As much as it was a veil between veils, it veiled truths with half-truths and lies with more lies. Leopold leapt down from the lead wagon and folded his arms across his chest. A bitter attempt to keep warm enough to not faint and proud enough to still lead his men.
“Couldn’t have said it better,” he replied to Syrian. He gestured east along the inner flank of the caravan that sided with the Ice Henge’s outer rings. “Make sure the wagons at the back close in and half-circle the Henge.”
Syrian smirked. Malice was not in Jeren’s personality, but when the sword spoke, it shone through clear as day. He nodded, and then ploughed his way to the rear barking orders and cracking skulls as he went. Leopold watched him for an awkward moment, mesmerised and terrified at the same time by the man’s efficiency, then advanced to the nearest of the towering spikes of ice.
“Lot of good it will do them if He wakes up…”
Pensive, Leopold stopped feet away from the glistening rock. As hard as diamond, the Henge’s spires had consumed so much magic, and Tap essence leaking through from gods-knows-where they were indestructible.
“Yet still you lead them to death…,” growled a shadow.
Every bone in Leopold’s bony body reverberated. The sound was indescribable, but it bordered on thunderous, with added reverence. Time itself could be found in those words.
“War.”
A shadow stepped out from the spire, clad in midnight, and half as tall as the fang of ice. A mane of fur cloaks and war trophies hung from its shoulders, skulls and strings of teeth smashed from those unfortunate enough to not have survived wars forgotten and challenges untold.
“Death.”
Leopold could give the precise length of time that had passed since the two Gods had last seen one another. Three thousand and forty two years. A summer, hotter than any other, had thawed the seas betwixt Salvar and Berevar. The orcs had been particularly fiery that year, and Leopold had flow over the carcasses left in the wake of War’s fickle desire to find a worthy fight.
“I never thought you’d be so bold.”
As the old god stepped away from the Ice Henge proper, Leopold traced his features. As all the creatures beneath Berevar’s frozen skin were anthropomorphic, War, pastime of the orcish tribes that lived in the Tundra took the form of a chieftain as large and indomitable as he was wise and brutish.
“Or you as foolish to think you could sway me from my path.” Leopold’s eyes narrowed on the Orc’s.
The god of War reached for an axe from beneath the fur that was twice as long as Leopold was tall. Its head was gigantic.
“Hard to walk without legs,” War grunted in reply.
“I only need this,” Leopold retorted. He pulled a white framed pistol from beneath his overcoat. It danced with purple haze and mysticism. For a brief moment, the air smelt of lavender, not salt and winter’s chill.
War laughed. In every reverberation of his laugh there was another. It echoed across the plains and sent snowflakes scattering from their path in terror. To the west, caravan guards lined up, five knelt, five stood – rifles aimed, loaded, and ready.
“A pistol? You know that cannot hurt me.” War stepped forwards, his single stride carrying him fifteen feet.
Leopold smirked. He did know. He knew all too well. He had tried to shoot War millennia ago and gotten an axe to the chest for his foolishness. If he had learned anything since the formative days of Berevarian society, it was that if you lived to fight another day, bring a bigger gun.
“Of course it can’t.” He held it at arm’s length as though to shoot War. He aimed at the orc’s forehead, tempted to fire all the same. “But this is to tell the other’s to fire.”
War’s eyes widened as Leopold pointed Isabella skyward. Its nozzle flared in the bleak shadows. He dropped the pistol to his side and glanced across his shoulder. Amidst the hustle and bustle and mild panic of his caravan, the men had gathered in three fusillades.
“Fire!” Jeren roared. In volleys of fifteen, hell broke loose.
Last edited by Leopold; 05-12-15 at 10:43 AM.
The plan was, had it gone Leopold’s way, to distract War for long enough to slip unnoticed through the cracks in time at the heart of the Ice Henge. It seemed simple enough. Steal Jomil’s heart, get even, and get rich in the process.
“Oh fuck,” he spat. He made for cover.
The volley, followed up by a twin from the North did nothing to War save for rile his anger. Bullets bounced off his thick hide and lodged in the fur wrappings on his lumbering limbs. Leopold, shrewd as ever, watched the drama unfold from behind a crate tower. When the bullets stopped, War’s rampage began.
“Scatter!” Jeren roared. Despite being several hundred feet away, the unmistakable bark of the captain of the guard shot across the tundra. Dutifully, the riflemen scattered as quickly as they could.
War’s weapon cleaved through three unfortunate recruits and sent their entrails scattering through the dark, snow flecked sky. Three rifles dropped ominously to the icy ground. Bullet shells bounced on the cracked tundra.
“Well this isn’t going to work,” he mumbled. He holstered his pistol and scanned the panicking caravan for something more suitable for felling millennia old gods. He set his sights on the middle wagon and smiled.
“Leopold!”
Jeren appeared at his employer’s side with the sort of expression that suggested Leopold was about to have his diminished mood worsened. He cursed not bringing more Bourbon with him on the trip.
“What is it Captain?”
“Clarissa time yet?” Jeren panted.
“You stole the words right out of my mouth,” Leopold replied.
Together, the two men turned to the central wagon and charged in unison towards it. Leopold’s coat tails flapped in the wind and Jeren’s sword clattered against his thigh. Had odds been more in their favour, the sword would be in his hand, and the jacket slung aside for freedom of movement. Today, spears and blades would do little to help them.
“If this doesn’t work, what then?” Jeren enquired as he clambered into the back of the wagon.
Leopold stared over his shoulder. War was tearing into the front of the caravan, where the first regiment were holding a desperate last stand. He saw a soldier fly upwards at the apex of an axe swing and fall into darkness out of sight. He flinched.
“I will have to reconsider your pay cheque.”
The side of the wagon fell away, the cover unstrapped by Jeren’s shaking and dogged fingers. Inside, instead of the usual cargo stood a sight that was inspiring as it was terrifying. Leopold had not seen Clarissa in quite some time. It was, amongst his own company, one of his most closely guarded secrets.
“I best not miss, then,” Jeren grumbled from behind Clarissa’s buxom curves.
Leopold made sure he was out of the woman’s line of fire, and edged to the rear of the wagon. He conjured his spear. He bit his lip.
“Fire, fire, fire!” He levelled the tip at War’s back, and prayed.
Like all the woman in Leopold Winchester’s life, Clarissa was a fiery tempest of wrath and scorn. Just as much as she was beautiful, she was deadly. Leopold had acquired her in a lucrative trade with the Corone military prior to the dissolvent of its armed forces when the Ixian Knights took control of the island.
“What a magnificent widow,” the merchant mouthed as the barrels of the Gatling gun shuddered, sparked, and flared to life.
The first bullet struck War square in the back, and unlike its lesser cousins, Clarissa did not fail to penetrate the creature’s defences. The second, third, and fourth tore into the creature’s spinal column and knocked it forwards. A hail followed through, tracing through the empty space where the Old God had once stood terrorising the remnants of the caravan guard.
“Ceasefire! Ceasefire!” Leopold roared. He stepped into Jeren’s line of sight, spear waving, arms flailing desperately. He took a deep breath of cold, icy air as the whirring barrel slowly rotated to a clicking halt.
He looked over his shoulder. The cries of wounded and dying guards filled the air. The smoke from Clarissa’s lungs bellowed into the sky. Torchlight and desperation illuminated the dark skies. Leopold felt sick.
“Is it dead?” Jeren dared to ask.
“Oh.” Leopold clenched his jaw. “I highly doubt it.”
All the same, he made a beeline for the Henge. If he was going to stand any chance of stealing the Hearthstone he had no time to lose.
The moment Leopold crossed the threshold between the Tap and Berevar time stopped. The air smelt like sea salt and yesterday. The merchant stumbled into the Chamber of the Old Gods with snow covered boots and no idea what he was going to do when he got there.
“It hasn’t fucking changed a bit,” he cursed.
Whiteout began to turn into a pale representation of long forgotten power. Seven pillars formed, made of rock and ice and rage encircled the trespasser. Centuries had passed since the Old Gods that clung desperately to consciousness had whispered Leopold Winchester’s true name. Centuries would pass again before they dared to forget it.
“Rook,” echoed the Council.
Leopold stood to attention and dusted himself off. He disbanded his spear, did up his gold threaded waistcoat to the top button, and held his hands in the small of his back. Though his cheek was bruised, his hair eschew, and his torso bruised from the journey he did his best to appear regal and in good health.
“Hello, old friends.”
“You are no friend of ours,” they roared. The voices of the Old Gods, shadowy masses on the edges of Leopold’s vision tore at the man’s mind. He fought back, fearlessness formed from centuries of preparing for this moment.
“I’m not here to dispute that.” He stepped defiantly forwards and bent at the knee.
He reached out for the rock slab at the Ice Henge’s heart. Ignoring the illusion, he ran a finger over Jomil’s heart.
When Leopold opened his eyes the Old Gods were gone. The white out of the Tap was an afterthought. The Ice Henge was quiet. Though snow still fell over the Ahyark Tundra, it was a silent continuation of nature’s oblivious and unceasing march. He turned, saw the remnants of his wagon, and sighed with relief.
At his feet, a large stone cube had appeared that was protected by the Ice Henge’s power. By piercing the veil and contaminating the Hearthstone in its ethereal state, he had forced the veil that concealed it from mortal eyes to fall. Now, after a long journey home, he could begin to think about ridding Berevar of the Thayne forever.
“Leopold!” someone cried.
“I’m over here!” he replied with equal gusto.
Jeren looked considerably more tired and beleaguered than when Leopold last saw him. The merchant frowned. Jeren stopped in front of his employer and stared at the Hearthstone.
“What happened? You’ve been in their hours.” The caravan guard gestured at the rock.
“Hours?” Leopold blinked. He swore he had been in their mere minutes. “Jeesh. Ermm. Well. Easy enough, the Hearthstone’s here.”
That sounded like half a story to Jeren, but he knew better than to press matters when they were far from out of danger.
“What happened to War?”
“The moment you entered the Ice Henge he sort of, Ermm, disappeared.”
Leopold, finally free to hurt, slouched his aching shoulders. He did not want to know the body count until they were home.
Posting Permissions
Submit Thread for Judgment