The Citadel: Minotaur Graveyard (Syste VS. Brunvar)

[SoulBeaver]

OOC: I will try to do things differently. I will have a complete disregard for length, and will write just what I think is enough to convey feeling while preserving clarity and showing action all-around. Atmosphere is my highest priority.

The temple complex has a hundred by fifty food large promenade lined with lovingly sculpted pillars holding the name of each resting minotaur. The structure itself is made of simple geometric shapes and is radially symmetrical with a large round dome rises several hundred feet high. However, the temple actually descends into the underground, and the dome is supposed to represent the ascent of the souls into their afterlife even when taken all the way into the underworld. I will try to leave more of it undescribed so that we have the freedom to imagine it for ourselves.

A hushed breath of wind sung through the dust-coated walls of the proud minotaur graveyard. Eerie octaves reverberated through the halls that Syste marched brusquely through, immune to the dangers that they whispered into his ear. Dangers, the wind took to recall by gently brushing the dust off the sarcophagi with a loving hand as the intruder strode past them, that warranted attention.

Most torches remained unlit and unloved as the sound of steps crept further into the epicenter of this grand structure. The walls tightened around the four-armed creature and threatened to end his presence on their own if their dead could no longer rise to defend their honor from this defilement. However, no matter how conscious the walls thought themselves to be, they could not force Syste from this sanctuary.

Eventually, one of the four hands hands caressed the statue of a proud minotaur king made of the most flawless stone that eyes had ever perceived. It stood at a gargantuan two hundred feet in the middle of a domed room where the chorus of wind to peaked. Praises and tales of the greatest deeds accomplished, deeds that Syste could not identify with because of their magnificent scope, crowned this room in the most spectacular fashion.

Abruptly the music stopped as the dormant sarcophagus lying under the protective statue creaked open with the groan of dishonor. It had been opened, defiled, and the angry silence suffocated the foolish mutant. Even emotionless Syste realized, this place bode no good-will towards his physical being, and hastened the process of decapitation.

The present heat rapidly intensified as tiny slits in the dome crushed the room with light. Spirits threatened to burst from their resting place and tear Syste and the entire temple to shreds in their rage. Shamefully, they, too, were confined like the walls, and could do nothing to stop Syste from dragging the minotaur king's head by the hairs to the outside promenade.

Syste anxiously observed the distinct lack of sound during his retreat. Even the beating of his bare feet against the rocky floor felt quenched and suffocated. Therefore, it came as a great relief to breathe the refreshing oxygen of a lofty midday and see that nothing has, indeed, risen from their graves.

A glance to the left and right reinforced this notion, and relaxation crept over his body like a soothing maid talking compassionately to her lover- tender and persuading. Only a rough hundred feet prevented Syste from making due with his new prize, and it felt even more reassuring to know that no pillar raising the mile-high structure into the heavens could do anything against this feat. Moreover, he felt that the spirits had no right to complain as this head bore no semblance of life, and had not for so many years that even he had not yet existed. What use would it do to let it rot away completely in a temple forsaken and forgotten even by their own kin?

[Brunvar]

A snowstorm engulfed the mountainside. It was a bitter blizzard, with powerful and dangerous winds. The snow was so thick all around that it threatened to completely block all hopes of vision, making the landscape an opaque wall of solid white. The cold and difficulty of the storm did not bother Brunvar though. His thick leathery hide protected him, and the difficulty of seeing was an inconvenience and little more. He turned left and right, making certain that he could still find his companions if need be. Hopefully communication wouldn't be necessary from this time on. The four young minotaurs and Brunvar had spent long enough planning for this day, hadn't they? The time now was for action. For a moment Brunvar looked admirably at the silhouettes of his companions. They were good warriors, strong and sturdy, each with a level head. He couldn't possibly have picked a better team.

Cautiously, the group encircled their target. It was a young ice troll, only a child, sleeping on this mountainside cliff plateau. The minotaurs took their positions around it, and readied themselves to attack. Even such a young troll was very dangerous, for the creatures were massive and had foul tempers. Defeating it and bringing its bounty back to the clan would bring them all great honor. Brunvar grabbed his axe and prepared for the first charge.

It was a charge that would never come. For, from around the side of the mountain, Brunvar saw a figure emerging. It looked huge, impossibly huge, and its dark silhouette could barely be seen in the harsh weather. With a start, Brunvar realized what it was. A fully grown adult ice troll, stalking towards the minotaur interlopers. No! It was so improbable! The ice trolls were rare, the odds of there being another anywhere near there...unless there was a parent...

He didn't have time to consider it though. Soon, the creature was upon them. Clearly enraged it swung a massive arm down, swiping two of the warriors into the mountain wall with a massive crash. Then it turned towards Brunvar, one great protuberance of an arm sweeping down. Brunvar tried to brace himself, knowing that at this point running would be useless. Everything happened in slowed motion, the impact of the hit, the way it sent him flying over, over, over. The way he expected to land on cold hard ground...and didn't.

Brunvar fell. He fell, flailing wildly, falling over the cliffside and plunging into the white abyss below. His arms swung in absurd pinwheels, desperately trying to do that which no minotaur had ever done...fly. He fell faster and faster, air rushing past him and...

Brunvar woke up. That dream again. He sat up groggily and propped himself up on his elbows, for the moment unsure of his surroundings. He was back home in his father's war tent? No, no, of course not. Then he was in his makeshift lodgings in the Citadel, awaiting his next battle? That did seem to make sense, but it was not so. He was lying on a cold stone ground, sandstone flagstones of various colors appearing beneath him. Was he still dreaming? It didn't feel like it. Perhaps this was some sort of trick of the damnable monks. Teleport him to a new battle while he was sleeping. It would be just like them, wouldn't it?

With that thought he pulled himself to his feet. It was a difficult process, and extraordinarily painful. Sweat dripped down his face and matted his fur. Eventually he managed to reach full standing position. Now the full massiveness of his bulk was revealed. Despite his weak legs, his upper body was muscular and intimidating to the extreme. Thick fur covered his entire body, making him seem even bulkier. His large horns looked sharp and dangerous, they were extremely valuable in the black market.

Nervously, he looked from side to side for his axe. He hadn't been dropped off...wherever he was...without it? It only took him a moment to find his beloved weapon though. Awkwardly he bent over to pick it up, wincing in pain at the unwelcome movement.

Now that he had his weapon, Brunvar finally felt able to take in his surroundings. Above him there was a low ceiling, made of the same sandstone as the floor. The tiles that comprised that floor were colored black and brown in an intricate checkerboard pattern, extending all the way to the distant walls in every direction. Every few feet large pillars stood, holding up the ceiling. They were, of all things, statues of minotaurs! Burly minotaur arms were what kept the ceiling from caving in. Brunvar gasped slightly, wondering where he possibly could be. Sand drifted across the floor, marking for him the vast emptiness of this room. Other than the pillars and the fine floor tiles, there was nothing but empty space in the cavernous area. Why make such fine statues in what appeared to be an empty place? Perhaps it had not always been empty, or there had been plans for it not to be empty at some point. It felt...unfinished. Brunvar wandered aimlessly towards one of the walls, where he saw the outlines of a staircase spiraling upwards. It felt as though perhaps he was underground. There were no windows to speak of, at least.

"You are in the basement of a great temple, young Brunvar." came a deep voice from behind him. Brunvar whirled around. It was a monk, face concealed by the black depths of a hood. They all looked the same!

"I hate how you all know my name and I never know yours." Brunvar grumbled. The monk laughed. The minotaur realized what a stupid thing it was to say. What did it really matter? Nonetheless, it did bother him.

"Come, young one. Do you really wish to know my name? Then you should have it. I am known as Decimus."

"Well met, Decimus." Brunvar mumbled, using the ancient forms of greeting despite his displeasure. Odd, that was the first time he had ever been really introduced to one of these monks. Normally they kept themselves very secret. Maybe that meant something? Brunvar was slightly more concerned with finding out what exactly was going on though.

"I expect you are wondering why you are here now, Brunvar." Decimus said pleasantly. "We have found another opponent for you. It will be a most interesting battle."

"So you teleport me off in my sleep?" Brunvar asked angrily.

"Well, you awoke, did you not? In any case, I wish you the best of luck in your battle, Brunvar. I have taken a...special interest...in your case especially. You interest me, young minotaur."

"Ha!" Brunvar said, spitting on the ground. Special interest indeed. He was just about to make some sort of comment on this, no doubt a highly clever one, when the monk simply vanished. No further explanation, no more words, nothing. How entirely typical of the enigmatic Citadel monks. There was nothing in Decimus' place, just air. Not for the last time, Brunvar wondered if he was still dreaming.

The young minotaur warrior turned back to the stairway. So this was indeed going to be a battle. And that must be his entranceway. Taking one deep breath, Brunvar hardened his resolve. A special interest? Could that mean that the monks finally were going to heal his legs, finally were going to make good on their promise? They told him that he must fight before he could be healed (illogical as that seemed.) Perhaps if he did well in this battle, he would have fought enough at last. Then he could make good the purpose for which he had come to Scara Brae and leave.

He began to make his way up the stairs, ever so slowly. Lifting his legs was painful work, and unpleasant. In his arms he carried his greataxe, using its shaft to support his body weight. The sounds of his footsteps echoed around the stones. Brunvar realized suddenly that, though it was perfectly light, there seemed to be no real source that it emerged from. No torches, no sun, no nothing. Just pale, diffuse, yellow light in this strange temple. Carvings unfamiliar to Brunvar lined the walls, depicting proud minotaur heroes vanquishing great foes and evils. He didn't recognize them. Clearly, this place was important to his people...but how? It was so strange, so unfamiliar to him. He got the impression that the temple was more ancient than he possibly could imagine. It dated far beyond the known history of his people. It was older than any structure in Salvar itself, he felt. The meaning of it though, was lost to him. All he knew was that it was very, very holy.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Brunvar emerged up at the top of the steps. There he looked out upon the new room. Row after row of pillar lined the walls and the room, each inscribed in an ancient script he could not read. Far in the distance, at the other end of the promenade, he thought that he could make out some sort of small figure, but he could not tell exactly what he was doing. More interesting to him, however, were the other objects that filled this space. Throughout the room, he saw row after row of...sarcophagus. He gulped. This was no temple...this was a graveyard. A chill went down his spine.

I assumed that Brunvar was in the underground area of the complex, and then that he climbed up to the area where Syste is. I wasn't terribly clear on the temple description, so I hope that nothing I wrote contradicts. I also assumed that Brunvar is exactly at the opposite end of the room from Syste, therefore 100 feet away. At that distance I think he could still make out a figure, but probably with no detail. This post was unusually long simply because it was my introduction. And because I included a cheesy flashback.

Good luck to you!

[SoulBeaver]

Runes:
Conceal Intent: Syste's words become definite neutral and cannot be read from.

Unholy Word: Enrages a creature instead. The rage is, if cast on a user, specified by them, otherwise by my if it's an NPC monster or a non-DM NPC.

Sweep: Syste arcs his arm in a circular motion, and a thread of light stretches out from his fingertips and forcibly pushes enemies backwards. No harm done, but enemies cannot easily pass this barrier, and that's the point of the spell.

Crack: Opens a hole in the earth ten feet deep. The hole is five feet wide.

Poisonous Grasp: Covers Syste's hands in the poisonous blood. Also becomes acidic and can corrode silk, and other thin fabrics.

Syste inspected the head by lifting it high against the sun's illuminating gaze. The eyes seemed alive, the mouth breathing, and the ears receiving of the carrier's every thought. At any moment could the head have floated away, carried by the wind into the fires of past battles- history repeated. But this was not the case, and the head remained still.

The more his own unloving eyes battled with the unliving glare of the minotaur's, the more he felt drawn to it, the more the atmosphere turned the color of sand, then of mist, then total darkness. A solitary feeling brought on by utmost dedication to the study at hand dulled his senses. No eye traced the dark silhouette from the distance, no ear picked up the vibrations- nothing.

Syste lifted the trophy higher, trying to cast shadows on different features of the face. It had barely decomposed through all the years, and he marveled at the treasure beheld in his tightened hands. For once, he wished he could have felt the emotions to make him smile.

Thoughts broke apart like shattered glass as the hammer of silent laughter battered into his mind. The veil of darkness retreated, the mist dissolved, and surprised Syste with another living soul in this deadland. A minotaur.

A sting of irony perhaps, Syste solemnly thought as his shoulders turned his body around. Mocking him, the wind sang a tale of woe, a tale where the minotaurs shattered the souls and devoured the bodies of their slain enemies. Once again the temple seemed like a looming fiend just waiting to supple his flesh with its drooling maw.

Syste rashly shook his head, this is not the time to reminisce!

The body of the four-armed warrior shone a deep blue as the glowing tattoos fiercely fought against the fiend in an imaginary battle of wills. Their bodily battle would no doubt begin soon, and the warrior knew the weaknesses of minotaurs enough to desire their exploitation. No sense in his body betrayed him with thoughts of delusions. He had been seen, and the head with even more clarity against the midday sun. Nothing prevented the consequences, only everything propagated them.

A cry from the sky. Vultures encircled the area, eager to satiate their own needs with the flesh of the loser. One deformed example struck out its decrepit maw and ridiculed the two of them, goaded them into bloodshed. Many more flocked from the distance heeding the call of the invisible cries.

Syste slowly raised the dishonored head once more, this time in the direction of the newcomer. Minotaurs- epitomes of pride- would not stand to such a sacrilege. His victory shall start with the defeat of the mind.

The sand stirred, instinctively gave way to the shiny plates covering the promenade. It glistened in the sun- untarnished. Ready.