To House a Scorn, Only a Temple.

[Melancor]

Solo Quest

Two slender figured emerged in the shallow sea, approaching through the coast into the curve of land that was Istraloth. To otherwise untrained eyes these would seem as vicious sea monsters, breaking the surf with their gray sharp bodies. The ancient building rose in the distance, tall ivory towers now covered by a green moss, and yellowed by the decrepit finger of time. Great vines emerged from the turquoise fresh waters that, although beautiful, proved to be dreadful foundations for the building already pass the age of peril.

He moved slowly through the salty water as he crossed the worn wall of the once mighty port, the rooting smell of vegetation and wood, amongst other things, haunted the place. Fish and other marine creatures had now taken what once where the shelter of humans, as blue and white coral wrapped their fingers upon the marble walls to make them their own. Creatures of elegant colors, some citrus other leaf, and some of more horrid colors and of more violent nature who lived inside the dark eyes of the submerged buildings.

Only the square roofs and proud towers stood defiant to the seas possession of the area. White sand had already covered the paved streets, and crystal clear water, slightly tainted with the savor of salt was the only consolation to the rotting city. Black stains ran up what once where white walls, it’s toppled murals, and crumbled columns suited the city better, Melancor thought. After all, this was truly the monument to what boredom on a god can do.

“I’d like to see you pull something off like this again, Melancor.” Neletia spoke as she rose from between two walls which marked the later whereabouts of a street, and began to glide over the blue, spinning and playing as she spoke without the silly tone she was so fond of.


Ah, well… I figured there was too much of that Am’aleh fanatic spirit floating around, It taught them a lesson, the gods don’t really care about worms.

Like if that was any fun. With this little tantrum you didn’t only annihilated your own worship, but you damned the Aegean and the sisters from worship in this land.

Whatever suits you best, you probably know better than I, human worship is only good as an ego-booster.

I do know better- Neletia elevated a little higher from the blue wall, just incase Melancor’s claws decided to jump at her in retaliation – It was fun to watch as it unfolded anyways.

…You don’t say.

[Melancor]

It had not happened to long ago, a few centuries ago maybe, but alas the one that happened to be a boring one. Melancor had never really questioned his motivations, maybe it was jealousy like many had rancorously suggested, but he always knew it was just his simple hate for humans and their pity nature to beg for anything they can’t acquire themselves.

It had been a sight to be stared by awe through mortal eyes. a summer’s day when something as rare as a hurricane, or a typhoon as many natives liked to call it, began to sprout from the corridor between the northern regions and Fallien, breaking through the specific sea boundaries that the Aegean had within their territories, his younger borther could not oppose, after all Melancor was stronger than him, he had already spawned into a hurricane, and he would probably leave in a days worth.

And so it happened, leaving its birth point it war-danced against the wimpy island of Istraloth. A gray wall appeared before the horizon of the cheerful Island, through a day before Melancor would hit strong the citizens squired to secure their boats, harden their glass, and some wiser ones to evacuate. Although such simple attempts to make their toil less painful where useless, as at least two hours before the wind ravaged the island a tumultuous earthquake roared through Althanas, striking pain and leaving breathless their witnesses, shaking their hearts and souls to the core. Salvar rocked, Fallien mountains roared, trough the Corone forests it razed furious, and Aelar shook like there was no tomorrow.

Lucky would have been Istraloth if trebling eyes and uneasy fear of disaster had been the only effects. Their building crumbled into ashes, their towers collapsed upon their own foundations and fell like finally tamed beasts into the mud. walls tumbled and glass shattered, allowing free entrance to the windy fiends to harness the horror in mothers hearts. To those who survived the fall of ruined flesh from defiled buildings a wall there would be more.

In the port the boats found themselves lying in the stones of the ocean floor, fish flattered about, the oceans had receded only to concentrate it’s power on a single blow. Below the gray an army of blue stallions descended upon the shocked city, tearing its proud wall into it’s body and braking furious upon the metropolis as it rose desperate screams like an orchestra and brought those poor souls into a tomb of mud.

This sincere display of rancor was not allowed by the other deities, however there was not much they could do, a warm front faintly shield Istraloth, Am’aleh; and the moon hid to appease the high tides in vain, Suravani.

However, as a manifestation of rebellious defiance such effects where futile to contain the beast. It came the most monstrous of them all, the hurricane; throwing boats, trees, even mountains, anything that got in its destructive path, into the sea. It swept through impaling those mortals with the debris of their broken houses, stationing its long arms upon the Island, a wind to violent that is believed pushed Istraloth ten miles further into the ocean. The population of thousands was transformed into a vile pulp over night.

[Melancor]

A grin appeared in Melancor’s face as the images vividly reappeared on his head centuries after the deed was done, dust had accumulated in them, and where now, eh, more or less exaggerated by the way Neletia remembered it. She could see it happen on Melancor head after all.

His head still surfed over the matter as he quivered through the water, shadows of the ancient buildings projected upon their path. Until with a fresh breeze the street opened into what once had been the majestic plaza of the great metropolis. A perfect circle where no interruptions came to distraught the quiet sea film. There where two or three seconds of pure silence, ones which felt grew into minutes and hours. The sky overhead was blue, and a few sighing clouds brought about their dispersed shadows upon the water and what was left of the ancient facades as the salty breeze pushed them north.

“There” Neletia pointed as best as her body language would allow her.

It stood above everything else, like an acropolis overlooking the city, atop a large and slim hill. A great dome stood, held by tall marble columns. A roaad that serpented through its back could be seen, though the folliage had already swallowed most of its face, the dome hid behind them aswell. It’ beauty contrasted and revealed the hardships the city below had endured, though, age had traced it’s vile finger upon it and stained the building without remorse.

You are sure she is there.

She might not be, it has been a long time you know, and those humans are greedy ones.

Like they could ever touch the damn metal. Melancor barked in response to her insecurity.

Well I am not so sure if I can even feel her presence here, or if it’s just a leftover of the power surge from that whirly thing of yours.

Viper! that was centuries ago.

Well I do feel something emanating from the dome, whether is a Qual or something more ominous I cannot tell. Either way, brother; We are home.

They began their swim through the wide plaza, would take them twenty minutes to cross the city, the distorted faces of the city stared deep into Melancor’s soul, judging him as the culprit of their demise. Only the sound of his trashing, and that of Neletia cutting the wind where to be heard, maybe the occasional seagull creaking-about, but although it was a silent place, and although none of them would say so, they could feel the weak presences of small fiends lurking in the shadows.

[Melancor]

An ancient limestone arch rose, held by two columns, the green and dark stains of moss already crawled around its smooth surface. It sat at the foot of the hill, thick brown foliage, his now hid the eroded steps before them.

“Now then., it’s a draconian not a turtle.”

A claw emerged from the dark body below the clear surface, piercing it’s gray nails upon the damp sand that over the years had banked on the hill’s feet. scales, glistened gray in the autumn’s day. As a second claw rose so did his body emerged from the blue-tainted waters. The sharp muscles in his chest shoot as they pulled on the heavy strain that his lower body held. Along it’s firm surface of the gray tail cramps had already housed themselves inside his muscles.

Melancor surrendered to the ground.

His arms coiled before his face as his forehead touched the gray powder. It was cool. A petite tree offered one of the many quenching shadows that blanketed the isle. Silence, aside from the waves clashing upon the walls and the mouth of the salty mausoleum, reigned over the rotting city; no one was about, but a single seagull far above, and the Qual whose beautiful sound tuned as she jerked across and broke the summer wind.

“You really are feeble.”

Melancor slashed his head to a side, Neletia had already moved, his check fell back upon the sand. Neletia had resulted to be more of a discomfort than Melancor would have expected when he freed her from the silver ring. A petulant creature who did not left idle any opportunities to demoralize Melancor. Who, although in a less precarious position than hers, would always respond as his choleric nature dictates. The sleek silver serpent was a keen entity.

This time Melancor did not bark, however. Through his silver hairs he set gaze upon the stone steps that quivered up through the side of the rippling hill (now an island), Loamy earth ripped their cracks open, green arms wrapped around their surfaces, and numerous fingers of these laid dead, static, brown, a monument to the long-gone vile dance of autumn.

“It is not as if you carry a load twice as heavy as yourself in your back, but of course that wouldn’t be a difficult task! Your wimpy body is weightless as air, and your body is a hollow as your head," His claws grasped the sand with their hard palms, and his back hershly erected, his head followed slowly, "hateful harlot.”

“…okay, point given.”

Gray scales began to banish underneath his olive skin. They wrecked like rusted nails submerging into his flesh, slowly penetrating to leave his aching body exposed. It was a feeling that over time he had gotten used to, but this, being the most efficient way to travel was truly unconventional; Melancor had to carry his clothes through the large seas. He was tiered, and there, atop the sand and under the trees his eyes where sent to slumber.

[Melancor]

He awoke not too long after, but after the small rest he found enough strength to stand up and walk back into the calm salty waters to fetch for his clothes, which he had released from his grasp as he prepared to lodge on shore. He found them not too far, just a few meters away, where the water covered up to his waist, atop the plain rock bottom. He pulled the damp garments from the water, and one by one he fastened in its proper place. The heavy clothes slowed him down as he moved back to shore, with a swift move of his palm the water was extracted from the meters of fabric, and as a tail of water it returned to the sea.

It wasn't until he set foot on the land that he noticed the absence of the peevish Qual. Melancor was not really bothered by her absence, he knew very well that Neletia could easily escape any kind of dangerous situation without a hassle. 'Well then' he thought to himself 'Onto what we came here for'. Before just a few days of releasing Neletia from her bond, they had searched Istraloth for at least another of the Methrhya rings, on which the goddesses of tempest are locked in mortal, un-human forms, Quals.

Melancor initiated his ascend into the temple atop the hill, clearing the stone steps from the thick vegetation, he moved through the ragged edges of moss and polished stone. This city was once an important center of worship to the Aegean, the largest temple constructed for them was believed to be this, created for their patron, Am'aleh. Melancor was surprised to see it still standing when he entered the city, withstanding not only the years, but the inquisition on the Aegean Lore.

There was an evil and sinister feeling to this mount. Melancor could feel dim presences that traveled through the air only to vanish as quickly as they appeared. This place seemed to house countless spirits, souls of humans and late inhabitants of this city who sought peace in the oasis of rock. Although these entities seemed peaceful, he could recognize a feeling of hostility arising as he moved through the steps.

[Melancor]

'Xe, shine, shidu, shytra, shyvek, shisuk, vevel, fovel, bufvel, shivyl'

His mind recited in Teifon the numbers of championed steps; tradition mandated to avoid the 33th step in every set. Thirty for the third order of the realms of the gods, the sea, and three for the third throne in the hierarchy. As much as Melancor is detached from human civilizations, he would never consider cursing his own name for the sake of human discomfort. It was long ago in the Acrektian temple of Ishmir, the mother of the forest, in which the leaves formed the symbol of the Teifon thirty-tree in the sacred pond. It's water turned thick and black as Draconian blood, and the fish themselves drowned, a symbolizing that whoever sought peaceful lives by the sea gods would find death instead.

Word by the priestess spread through the East like wild fire, reaching Istraloth in a matter of months. All physical representations of the number where to be altered. In architecture many where masked, others where completely chiseled out. In the case of steps, a small slope was created besides the steps, stretching from every 32th and every 34th, across 33th, a supplementary path to allow people to avoid stepping on its surface. The 33th step was never meant to be removed, however, as this could signify the removal of the deity itself from their culture. Ironically enough every other aspect of desertion against Melancor was practiced without remorse.

Pathetic. A world that perfectly descried Melancor's position, having to look out for a curse created for mortals, fearing to step upon his own number. Metrhir was the one he looked out for, which is why he could not forsee the step ten numbers earlier...

His voice struck 23 "Vethir"