Archives 1

[ToM] The Temple of Mondain resides in the Desert of Compassion in Felucca. There, they seek the veneration and rebirth of Sosaria's darkest wizard...

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Veritus
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Archives 1

Post by Veritus » Wed Dec 24, 2008 2:54 am

Archives: Chapter 1
LLGL: Duran's Debacle
Duran lurked about the roof of the Temple of Mondain, brooding in a nature most unbecoming. Mordain's trusted right hand was a man...a being tempered in the raw flame of consequence to personal conviction. His ideals were not always on par with his ainur lord and master, but that never clouded his devotion to the Temple, or its meglomaniacal lord.

RedThorne glanced up from the moonward parapet and saw Duran pacing. "You know Iris hates when your heavy feet beat upon the roof of her chambers." Duran folded his arms and arched his emerald eyes down towards the Temple's third-in-command as he replied evenly. "Tis half past moonset. Should you not be dusting off the Skulls of Power? You know how he gets when you neglect your duties."

Disarmed, RedThorne used the pause to his wit to climb the massive spiral staircase to the roof. The winds were heavy in the Desert of Compassion this eve. The abrasive sands bit away at the fortress, but both Duran and RedThorne looked about thier Temple with no subtle degree of pride.

The fury of N'walmdor's sands would never disturb thier home.

Placing his hands upon the edge of the battlement, RedThorne looked over at his visibly disturbed colleague as he questioned. "You present the image of a soul in distress, Duran. What is it?" Duran rarely offered counsel on personal matters, and seldom accepted it, but this was a matter of security to his master, Mordain.

"He insists on riding out with us during our next attack against Moonglow. I have advised against it, but Lord Mordain would not hear of it." stated Duran with a heavyhearted tone. RedThorne looked to his hand...his ringfinger, before replying. "The Gem of Souls protects him, Duran. Besides, the scriptures speak of him being an immor..."

"Yes an immortal, I know," hissed Duran, cutting off a slightly shocked RedThorne. "But consider this, if you will, my friend. What does a god need with a ring? Mordain is all-powerful, this I do not dispute. But his chase in the sister-ring to the Gem of Souls that whore Jasmine holds is bordering on fanatical. It gives me pause."

"Understandable. I too have questioned his fixation upon the Gem of Souls privately, but consider this," pleaded RedThore as the skies above the Temple erupted in cascading rivulets of lightning and flame. "Mordain has never led us astray. Is he a god, an immortal? Who are we to say, Duran? Our position and station is one of obidience."

Duran caressed the spiked head of the mace he wore at his beltside. "That is the very problem, my brother. I feel compelled to question the desire a god has for some artifact. If he needs, he is vulnerable. That is something I cannot allow upon my watch!"

The clouds above the Temple swirled into a vortex, sucking all the sounds about Duran and RedThorne into its center. The lightning that danced about the skied overhead seemed to congeal towards this pupil in the maelstrom above. A blinding flash was quickly suffixed with a thunderblast knocked both Mondainites off thier feet. From the eye of the vortex, a large ball of lightning slowly descended.

Duran and RedThorne gazed about almost drunken-like, thier senses somewhat shaken from the impact against the icy Temple roof. The charged sphere continued is graceful descent as both Duran and RedThorne rolled away from it. As the base of the lightning touched the stones of Mondain's Temple, a thunderclap ripped across the Desert of Compassion, flattening anything that walked, crawled or grew for miles about.

Duran looked on as the ball of lightning slowly dissapated, revealing the massive figure of of his lord, Mordain. The ainur was upon one knee, face-down...knuckles pressed against the rooftop. His long grey locks of hair cascaded down his shoulders past his flexing and contracting biceps. The form of Mordain rose slowly and gracefully, all but his face...his eyes remained upon the stones in which he landed.

The flowers Iris, his human concubine, had placed upon the roof wilted as he spoke directly into the minds of Duran and RedThorne without uttering a sound. The sound, the feeling he imparted upon them was grating an irritable.

"My desire for the Gem stems not from my need for it, by my condemnation of the prospect that another would possess it! This is no petty whim of vanity...a mortal has defied my will, but even a god cannot forcibly steal back something he has allowed to be stolen from him. This is the base of my rage, and this is why I ride to Moonglow."

Duran raised both hands in supplication as he rose. "Lord Mordain, it is not your power I question, it is your rage. To have you engage in single combat with this unbalancing fury, I find unsettling. Gods may be gods...but if you may allow me, emotions are as aged as the gods. Emotions can unsettle and distract."

The countenance of Mordain fell upon Duran like a collapsing battlement, but his advisor refused to avert his gaze. The black eyes of the Prophet tore into Duran's soul, and Mordain saw that his right-hand bore a heavy concern for not only his safety, but his legacy.

"So be it, Duran. You will send a visage of terror in my stead. You shall embody it with my fury, charge it with my power and unleash it as my rage upon my detractors."

Duran bowed, acknowledging his new responsibility. Mordain vanished in a flash of black light; most likely to his chambers below to engage in mortal pleasures with his concubine, Iris. Duran looked at RedThorne with an arching brow, then to the misty block of ice that appeared in the wake of Mordain's departure. It was about the size of loaf of bread.

It had charcoal streaks with bloody splotches of red. It remained solid for several long moments, which Duran found fascinating given the surrounding heat of the Desert of Compassion. He recalled the legends of his childhood imparted upon him by his father...how the most revered commodity a seafarer could wish for was a chunk of ice from the Northern Wastes of Sosaria to preserve shipborne perishables...the legendary ice that would never melt.

As both Mondainites looked on, the ice began to dissolve rapidly. At its center was a creature of some sort, struggling against the shrinking, frozen barrier that confined it. After several spasmatic jerks, the block burst, revealing a small, furry creature that resembled a feral cat, aside from massive, lower-jaw fangs that shot upwards and ended just shy of a pair of reptillian-red eyes that pulsed with Durans own heartbeat. The hellish beast sniffed the air three times and took in its surroundings.

Then it started to grow.

Rapidly.

RedThorne recoiled at the sight of the beast as it rose on its hind legs and began to take an almost humanoid semblance. Muscles burst outwards all over the creature as it gurgled horrible gasps. Duran only stepped forward when the horror had stopped growing.

What was once a grimy cat a few moments prior, had gourged to a seven-foot freestanding visage from hell itself. Deep grey fur streaked with grey covered the monster, its face somewhere between that of a man and a sabred ocelot...a thick viscous fluid escaping its maw. The gargantuan jowlfangs that erupted upwards were nearly six inches in length ultimately ending just beneath a pair of solid red eyes that never ceased their rhythmic pulse.

The former paws of the being were replaced by a pair of huge, bloody-moist fists that opened and closed in concert with its eyes. The breathing was haggard, but not labored. Wrinking its nose once, the beast spat out two sounds.

Goth....Gurtha.

Duran nodded immediately. This abomination to nature itself spoke in the toungue of Mordain's choosing. Where it came from, no one could say...save Mordain. It was clear to Duran that this thing would serve as the extension of Mordain's hatred for those who sought to thwart him.

Duran leveled a pointed finger at the creature who looked down at him almost tolerantly. "You shall be the hand of Mordain's wrath, and the keeper of his safety. You are to be known as the Gurtha'Fea, the Spirit and Harbinger of Death to any who oppose his will."

The beast howled and punched its own chest twice as it strode towards Duran, who recoiled slightly. "And you shall have a name unto yourself as well. Your name shall be the chronic reminder of your duty to this Temple and its Prophet. For so long as you roam amongst the ranks of the Temple, the notion of surrender or retreat shall never cross the mind of even the lowliest acolyte. Your name shall remind them...to flee in battle, is to face you for judgment..."

The Gurtha'Fea threw its arms out as it crouched low and roared to the stars in the rapidly clearing sky above.

"...you shall be called Flight."

________________________________________________________

The Decision of Duran

"A wise man once said to me, Renran'ar. 'Patience is a bitter vine that yeilds the sweetest fruit'. There was a time when I truly considered myself patient. Now I grow tired of the tides delay in bringing the answers I seek."

Duran moved to the forefront of the parapet's northern battlement. Renran'ar of the house of Viaxus had been away from the temple for many weeks. Much had transpired in has absence. The drow-human hybrid spoke in silent and melodic tones.

"Its not like Fredrick to simply leave. Not without explanation. There is neither rhyme nor reason in any of the events to which you have told me, my Elder."

Duran, long known for a stoicism that could make mountains flinch before his face revealed emotion looked back at the High Bishop. "I have performed the due investigations here and they have brought me no further to the truth. My instincts tell me that the forces that hold the name British as gospel are rallying."

Renran'ar hummed with the wind of the desert as Duran spoke. There were those that said Viaxus could actually feel omens through the music he felt in everything. The wind, the fire, the water...all spoke to him in a mystical music to which only his ear was attuned...

"Agreed, Duran. Now is a time of shadow for us. What do you propose?" Duran looked at the drow and then began walking downstairs. As both Mondainites walked into the great antechamber Duran looked at the empty throne of Mordain. The dusting tile of stone where Fredrick stood. Duran then moved to the Black Altar and the Skulls...whose power only Mordain could successfully weild. But these Skulls could provide Duran with the omnicient vision he required at this most desperate time...

Renran'ar looked astonished at Duran. "My Elder, not the Skulls?! What course of action do you mean to suggest!?" Duran's eyes never left the Skulls. He merely replied. "My friend, the course of action I would suggest," Durans hands moved over the Skulls and his eyes closed. A moment later, he withdrew his hand and signed...

"...is a course of action I can't suggest."

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The Fall of Minas Gorgorath

Stepping off of the teleporter, Polynikes walked toward the center of room where his master sat at his shadow stone desk, pouring over a very old looking book. The pale green eyes of his master met his, and a slight grin appeared upon the face of Duran.

“What do you have for me, Polynikes?” Duran asked while closing the ancient tomb upon his desk. “Just a few small items Master, then I will be out of your way. First thing is that we have through purchase and exploration of Malas found you more of the staves you have requested.” The grin upon Duran’s usually stoic face grew to a smile. “Excellent.” Duran spoke with a bit of enthusiasm. Polynikes gave a smile and continued, “Also, we have also made a few weapons from the ore that we have mined from the mountains around here. There was one weapon, a brightly colored war hammer that may hold some interest to you.” The Elder of the Temple nodded and stood up from the desk and began pacing his chamber, facing the far wall. Watching all this, Polynikes began to wonder what was upon the mind of his master. He did not have to wait long to find out…

Turning back toward his long time servant, Duran spoke, “I have a task for you, my friend. Go through Minas Gorgorath and pack up everything and put it all into a secure lockbox away from the tower. Tonight, at midnight, I want you and your men to meet me outside, and bring this war hammer you told me about.” With all that said, Duran walked out of the room, leaving Polynikes with a confused look on his face.

************************************************

Midnight came upon the land, and sure enough, Polynikes and his small group of workers, all crafters and hard working folk of the land stood in front of the white tower that is Minas Gorgorath. Appearing in front of them almost suddenly was their master, dressed in his shadowy shroud. His pale green eyes shone brightly through the dark hood, which brought visible fear into the eyes of the workers. Sitting at the base of the workers was a metal chest which Duran opened immediately. Sitting in the chest was a lone war hammer, which strangely enough, glowed with the same glow as the master’s eyes. With both hands, Duran lifted the hammer up from the chest, bringing it closer to his shrouded figure. The shining eyes of Duran began to shine brighter as Duran moved toward the base of Minas Gorgorath. Raising the hammer high above his head, the Elder brought the hammer down onto the stone stairs of his home. Confused looks ran rampant among those watching. Over and over did the hammer fall upon the stairs, barely making a scratch upon the stairs. Soon, the onlookers heard the stone crack. Right in the middle of the now ruined stairs to Minas Gorgorath laid a large crack which traveled all the way up to the base of the tower.

The workers and Polynikes watched as their master drew a small dagger from inside his robe. Rolling up his left sleeve, Duran then took the dagger and make a large cut across his arm. The cut he made began bleeding almost immediately and with the blood from his arm, Duran held his arm over the crack in the stairs and let the blood drip down through the crack. For what seemed like ages did Duran let the blood from his arm drop into the newly made crevice. After many moments, Duran then once again took up the war hammer and struck the base of the tower only once. In this lone act did the hammer shatter, but caused the tower to start to shake. Duran quickly ran back to where the others were standing, still holding the same confused look at the beginning of this bizarre ceremony.

The ground underneath the feet of those watching this began to shake. Polynikes and the rest of the workers, trying to keep their balance, stared at their master, who now just continually gazed at the tower. The eyes of Duran, which were shining a very bright green, suddenly turned the color of blood. At that moment, the tower once known as Minas Gorgorath started to collapse in on itself. As the white marble began to fall, the small crack that Duran had created with the war hammer began to increase in size, until the very ground opened up and the still remaining pieces of Minas Gorgorath fell into the earth before them. When the last piece of the once great tower fell, all became silent. All that was left was an opening in the earth, but that was soon to change.

The silence, which came after the collapse of Minas Gorgorath, was short-lived. The ground shook violently this time, knocking all but Duran to the ground. The master stood still, eyes still blazing red. He began to raise his arms up into the air. Polynikes and the rest of his men watched as something began to rise up from the ground. Something very large…

************************************************

When the shaking finally subsided, Polynikes waited a moment to see if there was going to be any other surprises. Standing up, he carefully walks over to his master, who is now on one knee, breathing heavily. Duran, seeing Polynikes coming towards him, can only smile. “Master, are you alright?” asked Polynikes while trying to help his exhausted master to stand. With the help of Polynikes, Duran slowly stands up, still out of breath and smiling, says “Aye my friend. Gaze upon our new home…”

Looking up, Polynikes gazed upon the new structure before him. It was a stone tower, the majority of it still standing, but it seemed like it was built in a very eclectic fashion. Walls curved and jolted out and into the structure. Dirt and grass still feel from the upper reaches of the newly born structure. Looking around it, Polynikes found small patches of what looked to be molten lava. The only conclusion that Polynikes can fathom was that this structure came from the Abyss. Looking back, he watched the others begin to stand and stare in awe of what they had witnessed. “Never a dull moment…” Polynikes spoke with a chuckle.

___________________________________________________

Ascension in Death: A Legacy Over

Light shown in from the temples great windows. The beams of sunlight warmed the stones that layered the floors and the shadows defined their shape. The great wooden doors of the temple opened with a loud creak that filled the echoed halls, and through the door figures clothed in hooded shrouds of black their hands folded in front of them with their heads bowed and faces obscured by their hoods walked single file in two lines into the main chamber. Breaking formation and forming two rows they lined either side of the walkway into to temple. Standing motionless without raising their heads nor making a sound they stood for a long while.

Suddenly in the room came the general, his armor radiated with a strange aura and his eyes shown through his green mask made of an unknown beasts skull. Behind him was Trullivan, beaten and bloody from obvious torture he had taken while in custody of the temple he was bound and chained though his face showed no sign of fear of death, in fact a smile crossed his lips on more than one occasion. Behind Trullivan, Roba, the great demon of the temple entered, his eyes glowing a bright red beam that seemed to illuminate his path as he walked with his head lowered. As he entered his fist's were clenched in a seemingly endless rage that bore through his ancient demonic chants, even the temple knew not their meaning.

Trullivan was then taken by Roba and chained to a newly created and sternly placed post in the center of the new altar created by Mordain for this very ritual. Fredrick stepped to one side of the altar and Roba stepped to the other. Finally after several minutes The light that had just been showing into the temple turned to shadow and darkness. The scones that lined the walls were suddenly lit with a quick and powerful gust of wind that howled into the temples great chamber. The first figure to appear in this coming was the great Lieutenant Durnik. Entering the temple like a creeping shadow his presence seemed to demand his attention as the hooded figures, in unison, raised their heads and removed their hoods. Behind Durnik the last person entered the Temple, Mordain. Clad in a white robe no light seemed to approach his being as he walked to the altar. A smug grin of victory shown from his face and his black eyes seemed to swirl like vortex were kept within.

Durnik took his mace and tapped it on the ground two times. A piercing noise echoed through the room as everyone's attention was bound to the altar. Trullivan however seemed focused on a locked box behind the altar next to a set of thrones, obviously for the hierarchy of the temple. His attention from it never wavered even as a Mordain's voice began to boom throughout the temple. It rumbled like thunder as he spoke filling not only the entire temple but the entire cove, and rain began to poor as a complete darkness covered the cove in which the temple lay. Lightning crashed and the wind howled as if to pay tribute to the master of sorcery.

As Mordain's incantations filled the air a great cyclone of wind began to form at the temples roof, suddenly it pierced the roof of the temple and crashed down directly upon the altar. The four skulls of power arose from each of their pedestals exuding rays of powerful light that hit the cyclone like lightning. Mordain again chanted an incantation; this time red flame like lightning struck a great black stone that stood on a pedestal in the middle of the altar. As the cyclone became more focused on the center stone and power emanated from both the altar and Mordain voices could be heard as if they were part of the wind. They chanted in unison and their tone crept up the spine of all in the temple. Suddenly the center stone shattered into a thousand pieces and exploded in every direction like a burst of stars expanding in a never ending universe. A gate suddenly opened where the stone once stood.

Mordain now standing with his arms raised slowly lowered them as he smiled to himself. Turning his attention to Fredrick and Roba, he then quietly whispered "Pay me my tribute." Fredrick and Roba turned and faced each other with an odd look of pleasure and then to Trullivan whom was still focused on the chest beside the thrones. Just then the box lid flung open with a crash. Fredrick and Roba realizing what was happening leapt toward Trullivan and tackled him to the ground but as they did Trullivan's spear leapt from the box as if to have a mind of its own and pierced Fredricks armor and chest throwing him across the temple. Anarchy and Chaos filled the chamber as Temple members scattered to subdue Trullivan. As they piled on him he let out a great roar of rage and from him emanated a great force of energy throwing everyone from him in every direction and almost completely paralyzing them where they landed. Stumbling to his feet his spear found its way to his hand and he broke his bonds and as he turned his attention to Mordain he raised his spear and threw it at Mordain.

A blood curdling scream could be heard as the spear thrust through Mordain's wrist and then chest. As Trullivan watched Mordain leapt into the now closing gate, when he did this Trullivan's great six bladed spear was shattered into three parts and seemed to disappear with Mordain. Trullivan catching his breath turned around but Roba standing no more than two feet in front of him, unfazed and eyes glowing red thrust a poison dagger into Trullivan's midsection. Trullivan pushed Roba with what strength he had left and darted for the door of the temple. As he fell down the stairs he could see Roba standing at the steps of the stairs looking at him as he grinned arrogantly and then turned to re enter the temple. Trullivan managed to cast a spell of recall and escaped.

As Roba entered the temple the members were getting back on their feet and taking toll of what had happened. Fredrick, wounded, stumbled to his feet with the help of Durnik and they looked at the mess left in the wake of the spell and the anarchy that followed. A deep red blood could be seen covering the altar where the gate had opened. The blood of Mordain, a sight rarely seen was cause for worry. The question loomed in the minds of the members of the temple though none spoke it. Did Mordain complete his ascension or was he destroyed? The answer though was followed by the realization that regardless, he was never to return. Durnik helped Fredrick slump into his new throne as he reminded him of his new position as the leader of the temple. Fredrick winced with pain for a few moments then straightened up as though nothing happened. Looking about the chamber his eyes then fixed on Roba, they narrowed for a moment then focused on the members of the temple who seemed to be awaiting Fredricks words. "Clean this mess."

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The Old Monk: Chapter I

The old Monk still doubted himself. Staring at the Black Altar, he touched the four skulls of power that rested upon whispering their names aloud as he touched them. "Knowledge... Strength... Life... Death..." With each one he felt a small surge pass through him. "There is still much to learn though..." He spoke directly to the Altar itself. "But you have slept for too long, the lands will once again tremble at the very thought of your power." Closing his eyes he stretched out his mind, finding Legato and Durnik in the desert city of Nujel’m. “Come to the Temple at once”. Durnik stopped in his tracks always bothered by the mental messages of Poet looking at Legato who opened the portal to the ancient Temple. Fighting off the scorpions and sand vortex's that served as a natural defense for the Temple the two warriors made their way inside finding Poet standing at the center of the Black Alter. "Poet?" Durnik asked looking at the monk with a curious look on his face. Not looking at them as they took their stance on either side of the Altar. "You were there Durnik when it happened, yes?" Knowing Poet was referring to the ascension of Mordain he simply nodded. "Tell me what happened."

"The ritual was completed and the gate had already opened. Lord Mordain had begun taking his steps towards the gate when Trullivan broke free from Roba. He grabbed his spear and threw it towards Mordain, piercing his wrist and passing into his chest. Mordain bled... something I never thought possible. There was a lot of confusion afterward but Roba managed to stab Trullivan with a poisoned dagger." "Where is the Paladin now?" Poet questioned. "He is hiding in Yew. He has joined the Militia there." Poet raised his head staring at the throne of Mordain. Arrogantly he walked over sitting and steepled his fingers while looking back and forth between the two warriors. "Is there any blood left on the Altar now?" He asked looking directly at Durnik. "We had cleaned the new Temple after the... event... but I can go look for you." Poet nodded as Durnik and Legato disappeared. Smiling he stared at the Black Alter studying every nook and cranny of it. A few minutes later the two had returned, Durnik grinned as he held out the vial to Poet. "We had done a good job cleaning up the mess, but the stones used for the new Alter were quite porous. It's not much, but it is something to work with." Poet’s eyes gleamed as he stared at the quarter full vial. "You said Trullivan was stabbed?" "Yes Poet, by Roba" "Did he bleed directly on the altar?" "... He was in the back of the hall, behind the Altar. When he ran I believe he went around the Alter." "I must be sure," Poet nearly whispered. "Find the Paladin and bring me a sample of his blood." Durnik eyes gazed up and down the monk sitting arrogantly in the great throne. "I could get a sample from the stairs. He bled profusely during his escape." "No... A fresh sample would be best. Though there are no recorded battles there, an animal... walking passerbies... anything could have bled there." Durnik nodded sensing Poet's need to be positive on the matter. "One more thing Durnik." "Yes Poet?" "Before you get the sample, find a blacksmith and have him create a brand new blade for you. One that has never been used and you are not to use it on anyone save for the Paladin." "What about an arrow?" Legato asked speaking for the first time. "Yes and arrow would work as well but the same must be said for the shaft. Watch the crafter as they make it. Make sure they do not make a mistake and cut themselves on the sharp tip. I want a perfect sample... and there is one more thing. Do not kill the Paladin. Take the sample and leave, let him live and wonder what we are up to." "I will do my best to restrain myself Poet."

The two warriors stood and watched Poet for several moments after that while the monk seemed to be lost in thought staring at the vial. "I know the question on both your minds and it is understandable. There have always been two sides to the Temple: the great armies, and the followers of the majiks. Armies with no purpose are meaningless.... Mages with no protection are worthless.... We are two sides to the same coin. With Mordain gone, a piece of the Temple has been missing. Fredrick has his armies to lead into battle but that is only one half. Both sides must be there for us to be complete." "And what would happen if we did not bring both sides together?" Durnik questioned. Legato answered the question for Poet though by making an explosion motion with his hands. "Yes Legato without both we are worthless. General Fredrick has his armies but I... my place is here preparing." "Preparing for what Poet?" "You have never seen the Black Altar used before have you Durnik?" "No I have never had the honor of witnessing it." "Before your days are at an end on this world. I will make sure you have such an honor." Poet stood up touching each of the skulls again. "I must go Poet; my search for Trullivan will begin immediately. Do us a favor though. Keep your mind on this world for a little while longer, and keep us informed." Chuckling Poet smiled at the two warriors. "A task that becomes increasingly difficult these days, but my days here are numberless still." Durnik disappeared as Poet made his way to the roof studying the Tome of Mondain that rested near the stone that bound the Temple together. Legato followed, watching the monk go over the pages over and over again. "Is there anything else you need of me before I go?" "No I still have much research and testing to do for now." Nodding Legato recalled off. Going over the Tome again, Poet went down to the lab and began running his tests on the blood.

________________________________________________________

The Falling of Yew

The Militia had been informed, their messenger had been captured, but where were they? Lord Durnik and BlackDawn stood, blocking the doors of Empath Abbey.

Where are they? Durnik continued to ask himself. The men that had sworn to protect this city were nowhere to be found -- and their absence was a cause of much worry. If it were his town, he would not let it fall so easily.

BlackDawn, sensing Durnik's anticipation, rode South down the road to scout. They're coming! The thought rang through the vaults of Durnik's mind.

"Brace yourselves." Durnik whispered."Yew marches."

BlackDawn returned to his place in front of the door, and waited.
Moments later, the Yew Militia marched up to the two in formation. "Why do you defile our fair city with your presence? Leave at once!" Marcellus declared. "Or we will remove you by force."

"The Abbey is under the Temple's control now. Leave us be, or the rest of Yew will fall as well." Durnik replied as he sent his thought out to the fields around them Prepare yourselves.

Marcellus laughed. "You are but two, we are many. You have no chance to survive. Leave now with your lives, or die where you stand."

Durnik smiled, his eyes twinkeled. "Marcellus, we are the Temple. You should know by now that the power of Mondain flows through us. However, if it is numbers you seek..." He left it hanging. The shadows surrounding the men of Yew began to creep and dissipate as Durnik lifted the shield. They had been surrounded, caught between the walls of Empath Abbey, the men barring it's doors, and the combined forces of the Temple of Mondain and the Horde.

Rukgorim chuckled wickedly. "Leeb nau ur ee'm klomp uu!" he snarled.

Trapped, the men of Yew began to rally themselves for battle -- crying out in fury and rage, and making last-minute preparations for the battle that, now, was inevitable. Then, out of desperation, they attacked.

The battle was short and ugly, the men of Yew stood for a few short minutes, but were overwhelmed. They had been victorious, Yew had fallen.

Durnik turned to BlackDawn. "Have the scribes begin," he ordered, and watched as BlackDawn lead the rest of the Temple into the Abbey. He smiled and turned to the Horde. "It is complete. Yew is ours, you may go and do as you please." Grinning, the Orcs made their way towards the city -- where the merchants and tradesmen sold their shiny objects.

"What a beautiful night." He said to nobody in particular. He sent his thought out to Legato Let is be off, the others can handle things from here.

______________________________________________________

Training Begins...

"It's one of them.." whispered the old lady. Beryl could hear the frightened whispers as she rode through crowded Skara Brae. Her steel grey eyes cold and speaking hatred to the humans pressing in on her. "Halt !" a rough male voice called and Beryl pulled her mount to a stand still, her eyes fixed ahead as she waited for the soldiers to come. "What business have you in Skara Brae witch !" he shouted loud enough for the onlookers to hear. She did not answer and the guard came closer, walking around to stand in front of her. Beryl could see that the colors of the Royal Knights of Redemption shown brightly on this guard, a new guard for Skara Brea she thought to herself..much had changed since she left Realm.
"Speak now witch or I shall force it from your wretched lips !" the crowd began to grow louder as they waited for her to speak....still, she remained silent. The guard stepped forward and reached to grab her arm, Beryl snatched her arm from within reach , seething with anger she whispered between clenched teeth "I have come for supplies..nothing more, do not provoke me human." she gently nudged her horse and attempted to move forward but the Knights had her surrounded, apparently not satisfied with her answer. "I think you'd better come with us .." said the guard and motioned for the others to take her. Beryl closed her eyes and raised her hands into the night air..."In Flam Grav !!" she shouted as flames came from sky forming a circle around her and sheilding her from the guards. Beryl opened her eyes and looked straight ahead at the crowd who were now backing away in fear, her eyes were blood red and her hands like globes of fire ....every fiber within her said kill them...burn them until they breath no more, savor the screams they make. She raised her hands once more and began chanting...many in the crowd began to run as she stretched her hands toward them..but then, "Beryl...it is not the time...control your anger Beryl." a voice whispered. She looked at the crowd, scanning every face, her eyes darting back and forth...the voice seemed so familiar yet...she couldn't place it. Shaking her head she once again began to chant...the lust for death returning once again. "Die..." she said as she reached out once again "Flam Kal Des Ylem !" she shouted feeling the energy leave her hands. However, instead of the rain of fire she had conjured, a path had opened through the crowd and at the end stood a figure of what looked like a man. The form approached her and she could make out a long robe and a wide brim hat, "a Monk ?" she thought to herself. The voice whispered again to her "You are foolish girl to not listen ! As I speak the forces from Yew and the Royal Knights are gathering on the outskirts of the city...and you chose to take vengence on these mindless humans ?" Beryl opened her mouth to speak and as she did darkness closed in around her....

Her eyes opened slightly as she woke from her sleep....her vision blurred, she tried to make out the details of the room she was in. "The Temple.." she whispered to herself. She sat up and attempted to stand..her legs to weak to carry her she slumped down again onto the cushions. What had happened to her...she remembered the guards in Skara but after that....
"Your thoughts will come back to you young one..." that voice ! She sat up again..."who are you !" she shouted into the air...the sounds of cruel laughter " I am called "Tel' Ooma" by those who follow the Temple, it is I who speak for Mondain in this hour and time." Beryl's eyes shifted and her gaze fell to the floor.."Then it is true...Lord Mordain has left this Realm." she waited for The Voice to answer...."Yes, he has gone from us....is this something you have heard in the lands ?" she shook her head..."Nay, I could feel it...I can not explain...I was coming to the Temple to finish my learning..." she fell silent as she fully embraced what Mordain's abscence meant to her. "I should have stayed and learned what I could from Lord Mordain. I should have..." The Voice interrupted her .."You do indeed have much to learn young one...and it is time. I can teach you much Beryl..but you must listen to me, my tolerance for those of weak mind grows less everyday." Beryl knew not to anger this Being...this..Voice. The sound of his speaking alone made her afraid...she knew what she had to do. Kneeling on the floor she closed her eyes and whispered "I will serve you Dark One...I need you to teach me."

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The Blood Guard: Part 1 - The Prophecy

Durnik thought to himself as he paced the walls of the great Temple. Much had changed since he began to follow the path of Mondain. Lord Mordain had ascended, Fredrick had disappeared, and Poet had seemingly followed him. He had not wished to lead the Temple – not that he felt incapable, but he knew there were others more qualified for the position, if only he could locate them. Then again, there was the ultimate goal of the Temple to keep in sight—the glorious return of Lord Mondain to his throne, and the liberation of the people of Sosaria.

He sighed as he made his way down the stairwell at the northeast corner of the Temple. Perhaps the libraries could provide insight—knowledge, if nothing else.

He leafed through the pages of musty books and tomes, devouring pages of text. More out of desperation than any quest of knowledge; how long he read, he did not know—the light of day never shone in lower regions of this tower, but what use has a Shadow for light? He muttered to himself as he read, then stopped and read a passage again.

“And in the Fifth generation of the Temple, the Keeper will discover the secrets of the Agar’Vakhar, and the great Temple of Mondain will rise from the ashes with the phoenix. Continue your quest for knowledge and bring forth the Blood Guard and return the Lord Mondain to his throne.”

Durnik paused a moment, and thought back. It was he who was the Fifth to lead the Temple—this was the fifth generation. He marked the page and turned to the front of the book, searching for a title, but there was one. More strangely, before that passage—and after it—the book was a simple Diary. He thought for a moment. Poet, you old fool, where are you when I need you? He asked to himself. This book, this passage, must be a prophecy, but were there others? Durnik peered at the bookshelves that lined the walls of the tower, and then shuddered as he remembered the library within his own castle. It could take years for him to locate all of the prophecies, if there were more.

No, they would come to him. If he was meant to know, nothing could keep the prophecies from falling under his eye. When he felt he needed instruction, he would return to the libraries—and the Temple would be ordered to collect any book they could get their hands on—by any means necessary.

But, for the moment, he had a task for the scholars of the Temple. Information was needed about the Agar’Vakhar—the Blood Guard. They would search.
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-Veritus, Arch Priest of Mondain
"The softest things in the world overcome the hardest things in the world; Through this I know the advantage of taking no action." ~Lao Tzu

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