Green is the new black.
03-15-12, 10:06 PM
((Closed to Charles and QuisalisX))
A sacred night fell over the shrine of Visht and Prandavor, the Old Gods of autumn and spring. Of death and life. A thin layer of frost coated the circle of jagged standing stones, blurring the primitive paintings that decorated them. Chanting carried through the frigid air. On that half-moon evening, when light and shadow ruled the sky as equals, two dozen pilgrims had come in secret to pay their respects at the ancient altar. Firelight flickered across the faces of fur-clad Skavian men, local townsfolk in wool, and withered old crones adorned in bones and antlers. And Orun, a half-Orc.
"Nen Vitarnat pranuk," intoned the oldest and ugliest of the crones from atop the large stone altar. Her crackling voice gave the Orcish words a haunting edge. Beneath the Old Night we stand. Orun repeated the words with the rest of the gathering. The great fire in the center of the stone circle dimmed.
Raised by his human mother, Orun had been taught little of his father's gods. The Church of the Ethereal Sway kept an iron grip on the faith of Salvar, tolerating no competition. As a result, he shunned spirituality in general as a youth. Only as a young adult did he develop a curiosity in the Old Gods worshipped in the far north. He would question any shamans or old women, those who escaped the Sway's notice, and took to building small shrines and leaving offerings to these ancient deities. When he heard rumors of a hidden cult in the wilderness north of Archen, he felt compelled to attend their Winter's Hallow ritual.
"Ven afarug agon nadaluk." The crone's breath came out as frozen mist and her shuddering body went rigid. Again, the strange congregation echoed her call. Before the coming dawn, we wait. In the distance, wolves howled.
"Agh jet Mattugur flianuk." She now held a dagger in her gnarled hand, waving it before the group as they repeated the words. And for the Gods, we sacrifice. She dragged the blade across her palm and flicked her blood into the fire. It hissed and flared up like a taunted beast. "Bloganuk!" Her voice came was a shrill howl. We bleed! She screeched as her body contorted and writhed. Her words, now in the Salvic tongue, came out in undulating gasps. "Prandavor, herald of dawn and lord of rain, awaken and drive the cold from this land that is yours! Visht, bringer of night, taker of lives, awaken to your servant's call and cleanse the unworthy!"
Orun could not tear his attention from the obscene and fascinating spectacle. The crone, the... priestess seemed to spasm and dance at the same time, and the now roaring fire appeared to mimic her movements. So focused on the ritual, the half-Orc never saw the shadows shift in the forest. He never heard the crossbow's twang. And suddenly, the priestess's face became a shower of blood.
"In the name of the Ethereal Sway, stand down!" ordered a stern baritone voice. The sound of drawing steel echoed from the trees, and then the screaming began. The ritual site erupted into chaos as the worshipers of the Old Gods fled in all directions. The moments that followed passed in a red blur. Twenty armored men rushed into the clearing, swords drawn. The baritone shouted again. "Surrender or you will be put to the sword!"
The Skavian men roared in anger, brandished their crude spears and clubs, and charged the Sway interlopers. The fight was brutal, bloody, and one-sided. The armored Sway agents cut through the fur-swathed tribesmen. Several other invaders fanned out, firing crossbows at those who fled. Amidst the carnage, Orun wavered in indecision. His axe and shield were already in his hands, but he hesitated. The warrior in him yearned for battle, but that would mean death. Yet, would running offer him anything more? We're all dead.
As though replying to his thought, the baritone voice called once more. "No survivors!" Orun found the voice's owner amidst the enemy party: a surprisingly slender man of middle years carrying a strange spear of solid iron and wearing blue-grey vestments. Struck by sudden, violent inspiration, the half-Orc launched himself into the fray, crashing into the enemy troops with his shield. Two foes toppled over from the force of his charge, and a third met his end with Orun's axe in his throat. Men died all around him, and he knew that his fellow 'cultists' were being slaughtered. He had eyes for one thing; the leader. An opening appeared through the armored church soldiers, and Orun darted through it, toward their leader. He raised his axe.
A flash of light. A gust of wind. A shouted prayer. Orun felt a blast of force strike him like an invisible battering ram, hurling him a dozen yards through the air. He crashed into a tree with a dry thud. He struggled to his feet, his vision swimming in a sea of red. He felt a crossbow bolt strike his chest. He staggered. He stumbled, feeling the ground give way beneath him. He fell, tumbling down rocky slope. Blackness consumed his vision.
A sacred night fell over the shrine of Visht and Prandavor, the Old Gods of autumn and spring. Of death and life. A thin layer of frost coated the circle of jagged standing stones, blurring the primitive paintings that decorated them. Chanting carried through the frigid air. On that half-moon evening, when light and shadow ruled the sky as equals, two dozen pilgrims had come in secret to pay their respects at the ancient altar. Firelight flickered across the faces of fur-clad Skavian men, local townsfolk in wool, and withered old crones adorned in bones and antlers. And Orun, a half-Orc.
"Nen Vitarnat pranuk," intoned the oldest and ugliest of the crones from atop the large stone altar. Her crackling voice gave the Orcish words a haunting edge. Beneath the Old Night we stand. Orun repeated the words with the rest of the gathering. The great fire in the center of the stone circle dimmed.
Raised by his human mother, Orun had been taught little of his father's gods. The Church of the Ethereal Sway kept an iron grip on the faith of Salvar, tolerating no competition. As a result, he shunned spirituality in general as a youth. Only as a young adult did he develop a curiosity in the Old Gods worshipped in the far north. He would question any shamans or old women, those who escaped the Sway's notice, and took to building small shrines and leaving offerings to these ancient deities. When he heard rumors of a hidden cult in the wilderness north of Archen, he felt compelled to attend their Winter's Hallow ritual.
"Ven afarug agon nadaluk." The crone's breath came out as frozen mist and her shuddering body went rigid. Again, the strange congregation echoed her call. Before the coming dawn, we wait. In the distance, wolves howled.
"Agh jet Mattugur flianuk." She now held a dagger in her gnarled hand, waving it before the group as they repeated the words. And for the Gods, we sacrifice. She dragged the blade across her palm and flicked her blood into the fire. It hissed and flared up like a taunted beast. "Bloganuk!" Her voice came was a shrill howl. We bleed! She screeched as her body contorted and writhed. Her words, now in the Salvic tongue, came out in undulating gasps. "Prandavor, herald of dawn and lord of rain, awaken and drive the cold from this land that is yours! Visht, bringer of night, taker of lives, awaken to your servant's call and cleanse the unworthy!"
Orun could not tear his attention from the obscene and fascinating spectacle. The crone, the... priestess seemed to spasm and dance at the same time, and the now roaring fire appeared to mimic her movements. So focused on the ritual, the half-Orc never saw the shadows shift in the forest. He never heard the crossbow's twang. And suddenly, the priestess's face became a shower of blood.
"In the name of the Ethereal Sway, stand down!" ordered a stern baritone voice. The sound of drawing steel echoed from the trees, and then the screaming began. The ritual site erupted into chaos as the worshipers of the Old Gods fled in all directions. The moments that followed passed in a red blur. Twenty armored men rushed into the clearing, swords drawn. The baritone shouted again. "Surrender or you will be put to the sword!"
The Skavian men roared in anger, brandished their crude spears and clubs, and charged the Sway interlopers. The fight was brutal, bloody, and one-sided. The armored Sway agents cut through the fur-swathed tribesmen. Several other invaders fanned out, firing crossbows at those who fled. Amidst the carnage, Orun wavered in indecision. His axe and shield were already in his hands, but he hesitated. The warrior in him yearned for battle, but that would mean death. Yet, would running offer him anything more? We're all dead.
As though replying to his thought, the baritone voice called once more. "No survivors!" Orun found the voice's owner amidst the enemy party: a surprisingly slender man of middle years carrying a strange spear of solid iron and wearing blue-grey vestments. Struck by sudden, violent inspiration, the half-Orc launched himself into the fray, crashing into the enemy troops with his shield. Two foes toppled over from the force of his charge, and a third met his end with Orun's axe in his throat. Men died all around him, and he knew that his fellow 'cultists' were being slaughtered. He had eyes for one thing; the leader. An opening appeared through the armored church soldiers, and Orun darted through it, toward their leader. He raised his axe.
A flash of light. A gust of wind. A shouted prayer. Orun felt a blast of force strike him like an invisible battering ram, hurling him a dozen yards through the air. He crashed into a tree with a dry thud. He struggled to his feet, his vision swimming in a sea of red. He felt a crossbow bolt strike his chest. He staggered. He stumbled, feeling the ground give way beneath him. He fell, tumbling down rocky slope. Blackness consumed his vision.